


Companion

by onceuponamoon



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bandom Big Bang 2013, Blow Jobs, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A workplace AU. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>There’s a dude sitting in one of the high-backed chairs opposite the reception desk. Mostly obscured by a fake ficus plant between them, the guy probably wouldn’t have been noticeable save for the lazy sprawl of his legs, the Chucks contrasting against the floral rug.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Companion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrankIero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankIero/gifts).



> Written for the Bandom Big Bang 2013 challenge. Many many thanks to the BBB mods for being awesome and running this shit. Also a HUGE thanks to [Chelsea](http://chelsri.tumblr.com) for the beta job and for listening to all of my whining and self-doubt and thanks to [Patty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty) for the cheerleading. 
> 
> This story actually began as a birthday present for [Maria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankIero), so a big thanks to her for the infinite patience. I hope this hits all the proper spots.
> 
> Here's the [Masterpost](http://bandombigbang.dreamwidth.org/9930.html) including [three gorgeous pieces](http://onceuponamoon.dreamwidth.org/1376.html) by [carotide](http://carotide.dreamwidth.org) and a [fanmix](http://anoceanmonster.dreamwidth.org/7593.html) by [anoceanmonster](http://anoceanmonster.dreamwidth.org). Check them out and leave these lovely human beings some love!

Though tact is definitely a key part of Frank’s job description, he will not, under any circumstances, send shitty interviewees away from his office under the impression that they should wait for a phone call bearing “Welcome to the company!” news. Instead, because his mother raised him right, Frank is honest. As honest as he can be, anyway.

Interview after interview, the sob stories and shoddily disguised, “I’m only doing this to get unemployment benefits,” shticks all run together and Frank finds himself almost entirely apathetic. It’s not that he doesn’t care – because he _cares_ , dammit. (He’s about four semesters away from getting his Bachelor’s degree in social work for shit’s sake; he’s not completely heartless.) It’s just that after three months of doing this job, sitting at this desk, talking to these people, he’s tired of listening to lie after lie after lie after _goddamn lie_. He’s been burned so many times now that he can practically smell the damn things a mile away, always obvious in the overly straight posture of a mother of three who’s in it for the DHS assistance, or the pseudo-comfortable slouch of a dude in a sweater vest who’ll end up being a no-call-no-show within three shifts. It’s too fucking easy.

Frank’s tired of hiring shitty people and then having it come back on him. It’s as simple as that.

 

*

 

“Alright,” he says, flipping to the next page, “Can you give me your best example of going above and beyond for a customer or client?” He doesn’t really need the cheat sheet of questions anymore, as he has them all seared into his memory like a damned brand, Frank just figures it’s easier for the person sitting across the desk if he looks like he might need a little help – lessening the intimidation factor and all of that.

The intense eye contact probably doesn’t offset it for shit, but it’s how Frank can discern honesty from the deceit, so the dude will have to accept it for the time being. Except for how he won’t meet Frank’s eyes but for a few fleeting seconds at a time. Frank gets that certain cultures have different views about eye contact and its relevance to respect, but this guy marked down ‘white’ as his race and was born and raised in Maine, so he doesn’t have the same excuse as the dude Frank interviewed last week from Cameroon because that’s not the way it is in America. Here it means lies.

Therefore, Frank mentally writes ‘ _REJECT_ ’ over the top of the dude’s application. He’ll write it physically too of course, only after the dude’s left because writing it now would be really fucking rude.

“Allllllright,” he says awkwardly, shuffling and restacking his papers, “That’s really it for the interview. Next, I’ll call the references you listed in your application, just to be thorough, and then I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Expect a letter in the mail sometime later this week or early next week.” Frank smiles apologetically, shakes the guy’s hand, and watches him through the blinds as he makes his way back up front with a puzzled expression.

At least he didn’t shut the door. It sticks and it’s a complete bitch for Frank to wrench back open.

Sighing, Frank whips out his pen and gets to work regurgitating the interview onto paper for posterity’s sake.

 

*

 

In a building where each and every other suite is full of lawyers, Frank tries and spectacularly fails to feel like an undaunted, true-blue type-A alpha male. (Not that he believes he’s a type-A alpha male, or even wants to be one, really. It’s the principle of the matter and maybe the unavoidable exigency to satisfy years of gender binary social brainwashing too.) Sure, he might be the Hand of Judgment in his own office, but these guys – these _assholes_ – won’t even take three and a half seconds out of their days to return Frank’s wave of greeting when he’s shuffling in first thing in the morning or his polite, “Hey, how ya doin’?” when they pass each other in the common area. That’s why it absolutely, one hundred percent, blows that Companion doesn’t have its own conference room, bathroom, or kitchen nook.

 _Frank_ is supposed to be the only intimidating asshole around here.

Instead, he’s the one keeping his eyes down anytime he needs to refill his mug or take a trip to the john, fight-or-flight instincts making the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

The stupid wind chime tied around the knob jingles all loud and fucking obnoxious when Frank shuts the door to the office behind himself, announcing his presence and effectively ending the imaginary stopwatch for his bathroom trip. He shouts, “It’s just me,” so that his boss doesn’t trouble herself and make her way up front without reason.

Only, there’s a dude sitting in one of the high-backed chairs opposite the reception desk. Mostly obscured by a fake ficus plant between them, the guy probably wouldn’t have been noticeable save for the lazy sprawl of his legs, the Chucks contrasting against the floral rug.

“Oh…hi,” Frank says, wiping his damp hands off on his slacks. He probably should’ve used two paper towels instead of the one. Clearing his throat, Frank continues, “I didn’t realize you were sitting there. How can I help you?”

“Um,” the guy answers. He’s wearing a lot of black – the shoes, the slacks, the jacket – offset by a white button-down and the dull stripes of his tie. Frank swallows. The guy sort of twitches like he’s going to stand up and then settles back into the chair, sitting right on the edge and looking entirely too tense. “I came to fill out an application?”

And wow his face is…eager for one thing, but it’s sharp and delicate and inquisitive and Frank was not prepared for that. It takes a minute, but Frank smiles and then falls seamlessly into character, asking, “Certified or non-certified?”

After he audibly swallows, the dude stands and goes, “Um. What?”

Frank struggles to maintain his composure, because he hates saying the same phrases over and over again, day after day, week after week, month after month. “Do you have any type of certification? A CNA or a CHHA or anything along those lines?”

“I don’t think so?” The dude clears his throat, and Frank bends to sift through the front desk’s bottom drawer for a NON-PC application packet. “I mean,” he says, “I’m CPR certified, if that counts.”

“Well, it doesn’t,” Frank half-mutters to himself, gathering all of the needed papers. “That’s perfectly okay. We don’t require all of our caregivers to be certified, but you do get paid a bit more if you are.” He notices that he’s on the very last uncertified application – and the last time Tamra was in the office she let him know that she’d deleted all of his files from her computer, fucking thanks, so the only computer with HR files would be his own. “Looks like this is the last one,” he divulges, sifting through the top drawer for the staple-remover, “I’m just gonna make a copy of this real quick.”

The copier room doubles as Heather’s office, taking up a majority of the space along with a tower of storage boxes and an armoire full of Client Journals. Thankfully she’s not in there, because every time he walks in guilt about stealing her office and tucking her shit away into this desk presses him down. Not that he’d had a choice at the time; it was all Donna’s doing, really. But still.

Copier beeping emphatically in a, “Hey, asshole, remove the papers,” way, Frank grabs everything up and staples both copies with the shitty stapler on the front desk, glancing fleetingly at the dude’s lower lip disappearing between his teeth before he clears his throat and says, “Sorry about that.” He slides the papers over one at a time and explains them each. “Here’s the wage chart, the job description, and the application. If you want to take these papers out to the tables out front, it’d probably be easier than trying to fill them out in here with a clipboard.” He smiles and hands the guy a pen.

The guy actually looks up from under his fringe of disheveled black hair and half-grins back. “Thanks.”

 _Wow, okay_ , Frank thinks, swallowing thickly, _dude’s definitely kinda cute_.

Frank trudges down the short stretch of hall, responding to his boss’s question of who was he talking to with a simple, “Applicant,” and turns the corner into his own office. It’s hard to take Christy seriously when the first thing he sees on her desk is a paperback copy of _Twilight_ , but she really is a good boss. He just has to remind himself. Constantly.

Beyond the snazzy two-hole punch, the organizer full of highlighters and pens, the omnipresent stapler, and the ever necessary box of tissues, a daunting stack of applications about as tall as he is awaits Frank on his desk. (It’d probably be a more significant comparison if Frank wasn’t of Little Dude stature, but hey, the point is made.) He’s supposed to get two more caregivers hired and trained before the week’s over and, well, Frank may or may not have been procrastinating. 

(One of his favorite things to do is build a Leaning Tower of Sticky Notes after Christy has left, and sometimes, when he’s _super_ bored, Frank will take selfies from various spots in his office, in front of the painting of vases, _fucking vases_ , for example. The best one he took, though, is probably in front of the row of filing cabinets where it’s blurry enough to make it look like he’s falling. Boredom is great for creativity, after all.)

With a melodramatic sigh, Frank calls a few references, recites the same fucking lines as always, and –

There’s a tentative knock on the doorframe. “Frank?” He looks up, offers a half-smile to Heather, the Client Coordinator whose desk he hijacked, as he mouths “ _Hang on_ ,” and then wraps up his phone call.

“What’s up?” he asks, sort of shaking himself back into the land of the living.

“Greasy’s finished with his application.” Heather grins, like the little shit that she is. More so than Frank, which is hard to beat. “Want me to send him back to you?”

Smothering his sarcastic grin of annoyed indignation, Frank mutters, “Yeah, thanks.” As he’s rummaging through his drawer o’ goodies in his desk, files upon files upon files, he notices the dude from earlier hovering in the doorway. “Hey, come on in.”

The guy rushes over, sort of shoves his application into Frank’s hands, and takes a seat in the chair in front of Frank’s desk. It’s a girly chair, brightly patterned and overly cushioned, so it makes him look even more out of place than Frank thought would be possible. He swallows a giggle. 

“I’m Gerard,” the man says, and then brings his hand up to gnaw at his thumbnail.

“Hi, there, Gerard,” Frank says, coughing a little to smother his amusement. He stands and shuts the door, saying, “Sorry, I get distracted really easily,” over Christy yelling to Donna about some scheduling issue and then offers Gerard a wry smile. “It’s way easier to focus with the door shut.” When he glances back over his shoulder, Frank notes the, uh, _general direction_ of Gerard’s gaze. Which may or may not rest on Frank’s ass.

Ignoring the sudden flash of heat across his cheeks, Frank goes, “Ahem,” rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and takes a seat back around the other side of his desk.

“You’re allowed to have tattoos here?”

The question takes Frank by surprise, stunning an easy smile onto his face as he glances down at the ink trailing up and down his skin, the flurry of blue and red stars, the pierced heart, the roses and skulls. “They’re not really anti-tattoo, Christy and Lance, but then again, I’m not meant to go out in the field and actually sit with the seniors.” He clasps his fingers together, watching the way Gerard’s eyes scan the shapes on his wrists and the backs of his hands, get snagged on the letters over his knuckles. “So, Gerard,” Frank begins, “Do you want to start by telling me a little bit about yourself? Any hobbies, interests…”

Gerard leans forward in the chair, face still pretty blank as he clears his throat and says, “Well, I’m Gerard Way. Like I, uh, said earlier. Um, I’m twenty-five. I still live at home and I’m looking to move out soon if possible. I have a brother, Mikey, he’s awesome. Uhh…” He slumps back in the chair again, green-brown eyes scanning the air for more facts about himself. “Oh! I have a bachelor’s degree in illustration. I plan to go into comics one day.” After that his face splits into a wide grin, his eyes crinkling a bit around the edges. “I _love_ comics. Probably more than is healthy, but ya know. To each their own, I guess. Especially anything Grant Morrison; he’s my inspiration…idol, or whatever. Like _The Invisibles_? Great stuff.”

Frank can’t quell his excitement at the word comics, but then he’s _really_ fucking intrigued. He’s always been more of a Marvel and DC kind of guy, so he knows Grant Morrison’s name from _Batman_ , but he hadn’t ever delved into the guy’s bibliography or anything. But, hey – now he might.

Nodding in agreement, Frank leans in to rest his chin in his palm.

“Basically, my collection is ridiculous. Um, what else…well, I currently work at Barnes & Noble with my brother and I kind of hate it a lot. Now I’m looking for something new, with more hours and a bit of flexibility so that I can work on my comic.”

After that, Gerard’s momentum wanes a bit and Frank asks, “Any experience with seniors?” because he knows if he asks anything about Gerard’s comics, then this interview could go on for _days_. Or at least well into the afternoon.

“Oh,” Gerard says, face still bright. “Yeah, my grandma Elena lives with us. She’s an awesome old lady – taught me everything I know. But, uh, she hasn’t been doing as well as she used to, so I’ve been running to get her groceries, paying her bills, taking her to Mass and shi – stuff.” He looks a bit sheepish at his slip-up, but Frank smiles and fails to stifle his giggle because it means Gerard’s being honest. “Just. Anything she needs, I’ll do it for her. Sometimes I take her down to museums or galleries, or to visit friends – just whatever she wants, really.”

Melting a little bit, because this guy is completely and totally, unabashedly earnest and he probably doesn’t even know it, Frank says, “That’s _awesome_ ,” really fucking sincerely. It startles him back into interview-mode. “Any other hobbies or interests?”

Gerard doesn’t even pause before he says, “Music! Ugh, man. Music is awesome. Iron Maiden, Queen – actually, I won’t even get into that because I could go on quite literally forever, just like with comics.” Gerard runs a hand through his hair, shoving it out of his face even though it falls right back. “But yeah. Any down time I have from work, which is probably more than I’d like, _hah_ , seeing as how I’m here. Um, yeah, any down time I have, I’ll use to work on my comics or doodle something new or maybe go to a local show with Mikey.”

“Sweet,” Frank comments. He shuffles his papers over his keyboard, scanning it for the next question, watching Gerard scoot back farther into the chair out of his periphery. “Alright, how about you tell me some qualities about yourself that you’re proud of?”

Biting at his lower lip, Gerard almost…deflates. “Well,” he says, shrugging a little bit. “I’m creative? And I’m pretty patient. I mean, you have to be, with art – and the elderly. Gramma’s been very clear about me not rushing her anywhere for anything.”

Around a sympathetic chuckle, Frank asks, “Anything else?”

“Um.” Gerard shakes his head. “None that I can think of right now.”

“That’s okay. What about things you’d like to improve on?” Frank unfolds his hands, leans back a bit in his chair. He’s already fucking antsy, jonesing for a cigarette and to get up and fucking _move around, jesus_. Desk jobs suck.

A bitter laugh starts Frank back into focus.

“A load of things. My communication skills, for one. Mikey’s always saying I’m completely socially inept, which I definitely think is true –”

“Oh, please,” Frank says, half-grinning as he waves a hand, “I think you’re doing just fine.”

Ducking his head, Gerard blushes and goes quiet.

The rest of the interview goes well, surprisingly enough. Aside from the shatteringly low self-esteem, this Gerard guy is actually really interesting. He keeps the conversation going relatively well, he doesn’t use any flag-phrases, and he seems incredibly sincere about everything. Sure, he doesn’t have a world (hardly any, if Frank’s being real with himself) of experience, but at least he’s honest. And that’s all Frank’s ever asked for.

Standing, Frank shakes Gerard’s hand and – damned if he doesn’t admit it – watches him go. This time, when he fills out the subsequent paperwork, Frank has a smile on his face as he remembers each answer.

 

*

 

The next few days pass with little fanfare – more applicants, more interviews, more phone calls, more paperwork. Frank wastes time on more “HR projects” that don’t really _have_ to be done, but they make him look busy, so he does them anyway. He audits the employee charts, calls references on applicants, takes more smoke breaks than he should. On Thursday, he trains a college sophomore that’ll probably end up stealing some little old lady’s wallet and an older woman who’ll probably call in more than she’ll work.

 _C’est la vie_ , or whatever.

On Friday, though, Frank’s line rings and when he answers it with his utterly standard, “Thank you for choosing Companion Senior Care. This is Frank,” the responding, “Uh, hello. It’s Gerard,” takes him by surprise. 

He’d called the guy’s references, hadn’t been overly impressed by the things they’d told him, the half-hearted, “Yeah, sure,” and, “I guess so,” to Frank questioning them on whether Gerard would be a good caregiver for their company. One of them, though, does tell Frank that Gerard has the biggest heart he’s ever seen, even if another called him aloof. It’s just…something in Frank’s gut (that sounds suspiciously like his little Polish grandmother) is telling him to take a chance on the guy.

“Hi, Gerard,” he replies, trying to sound appropriately friendly and simultaneously apathetic. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a soft sigh on the other line and then what sounds like the crinkling of paper. “I was just, uh, checking on the status of my application?”

Frank shuffles through the stack on his desk, finds Gerard’s and the big question mark and the “Ask Donna, then call him later!” he’d written in the top right corner. “Yeah,” he says, “I have it right here.” He flips through it again, noting the impressive (“ANYTIME to ANYTIME”) hours of availability, the doodle of a cartoon vampire in the corner of his reference page. _Ah, what the hell_ , Frank thinks, _it’s worth a shot_. “And, actually, I was planning to call you later this afternoon. Would you be interested in coming in for orientation on Tuesday at ten?”

Sounding positively gleeful, Gerard says, “Awesome! Thank you so much. Tuesday at ten. Oh, man,” and hangs up.

 

*

 

Just as he’s walking out of the door to the office, Frank’s phone vibrates with a text from Dewees. 

_Local bands @Train Station Blues tonight, my date stood me up. Come with! I’ll buy you a pack of facon._

Laughing, Frank scrolls up and dials Dewees’s number, saying, “You’re that desperate for a wingman?” before James even says hello.

“Fuck you, dude. I’m working the doors tonight and then I’m on merch ‘til two. It’s gonna be a long fucking night and I could use a friend,” James says, voice raspy like he’s just smoked a cigarette, and hey, that’s a good idea. “And don’t give me that bullshit about needing to study either, Frankie. I graduated without studying even a quarter as much as you do.”

Phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, Frank lights his cigarette and steps into the chilly wind, tucking his scarf into his jacket. “Yeah, yeah. Not all of us are natural geniuses.” After a couple of drags, he eventually says, “Alright, I’ll do it for the facon. Don’t you dare buy the shitty off-brand either, you asshole. You know which kind I like.”

Dewees’s victory screech is sort of deafening. “Fuck yeah, man. Alright,” he says, “I’ll come pick you up at seven.”

 

*

 

The venue is tiny, full with maybe 150 people elbow-to-elbow. There are posters and license plates and old guitars, signed photographs and through-the-years articles about Train Station Blues. This place has been around since the forties and Frank takes a picture and sends it in a text to his father. He gets a message in return that says _played a few shows there in my time, your granddad too_ and Frank is filled with both wonder and then disappointment in himself. He really should dust off his old Les Paul and see what that’s all about again.

Frank doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but a packed house definitely wasn’t it. After a couple of sets – one a band of high schoolers featuring a gaggle of middle school aged girls lining the front of the stage with signs and digital cameras and then the other a woman who sat on stage, barefoot with just her raspy, soulful voice and a piano – it’s as if the floodgates have crumbled. With the headlining band taking the stage for a quick soundcheck, the middle schoolers get shoved to the back by punks and hipsters alike, mohawks and mullets.

Almost immediately after the place starts filling up, Frank keeping Dewees company in the box as he takes tickets and scribbles X’s on hands, he gets enlisted to work merch with Dewees for Faithless something or another. 

Apparently these local bands are a bigger deal than either of them bargained for because they don’t even really get to say two words to each other until an hour after the headliners finish their set – which was pretty damn good, even with all of the feedback and the excessive amount of stage banter. Frank is pretty good at zipping around, picking out t-shirts and dodging the others. There’s a quiet, burly dude that “Hey, Bryar!” is constantly barked at, and Frank keeps catching his eye, noting how the dude looks kind of impressed even in the midst of working the bar with this military-type of efficiency. After it’s over, and the guys from Faithless have finished signing merch and taking pictures with fans, Dewees calls him aside, offers him a beer and tells Frank, “You’ve fucking earned this, dude.” 

Toro, the shredding machine from the headliner, waves over after all of the fans have cleared out and asks if Bryar has a beer to spare. Without saying a word, Bryar brandishes one and accepts the grateful pat on the shoulder in return. 

“You guys work here?” Toro asks, offering a hand to shake. “Awesome job, by the way,” he says, gesturing to where the remaining merch is tucked neatly into plastic bins. “You totally didn’t have to do that, but shit. I don’t remember the last time we were able to get outta here before two.”

After handshakes are all exchanged, and more conversation and beers are had, Frank’s buzzed and smiling dumbly at Bryar, who says, “Seriously. If you ever want a job here, just let me know,” almost reluctantly. Frank just nods and returns that with, “I’ve got a nine-to-five right now, but yeah, man. Maybe. Thanks.”

Dewees crashes at Frank’s and in the morning after a plate or two of well-deserved veggie bacon, Frank kicks Dewees’s ass at Modern Warfare 3 on the PS3 and waves him off at three in the afternoon. He spends the rest of the day studying, breaking only to eat dinner with his mom and give his dad a call. 

 

*

 

After the gloriously uneventful Sunday and Monday, “Tuesday at ten” comes faster than Frank is really prepared for, but either way, Gerard shows up ten minutes early, looking equally exhausted and over-caffeinated. He’s wearing a variation of what he wore when he applied, only there’s a red tie instead of the black and white stripes and a vest in place of the suit jacket, and wow, Frank is not going to dwell on it for the sake of professionalism. The other guy, some certified nurse aide piece of sketchy shit, doesn’t show up, so it’s literally just going to be Frank and Gerard. 

Gathering the orientation materials from his desk, Frank tells Donna and Christy that he’ll be in the conference room for the next couple of hours. 

It’s a nice change of scenery, for one thing. There’s a long, finished wooden table with eight of the most terrible leather rolling chairs, and a small armoire that Frank always barks his shin on. Paintings litter the walls, most just basic, overpriced oils from local artists and others reprints of famous things, like a Georgia O’Keeffe vagina flower. Frank can’t look at it without snorting a little bit. 

He sets Gerard up with the intro DVD where the founders of the franchise explain the dos-and-don’ts of Companion Senior Care and how it all began and _blah blah blah_ , Frank’s seen it so many times he’s practically got the whole damn thing memorized. It’s easy to tune it all out until the end credit music begins to play.

Gerard still seems to be mostly awake, if not exactly alert, when Frank turns back from shutting the player off.

“So,” Frank says, face splitting into a smirk as Gerard scrubs at his eyes. “Bearable?”

Laughing, Gerard nods. “Not too bad. I can only imagine how many times you’ve seen it.”

“I’ve honestly lost count.” Huffing a laugh, Frank shuffles through his materials, shows Gerard which documents he needs signed first and waits patiently while he digs them out of his own folder. 

His scrawl is small, tight and all caps in print but swooping and lowercased in cursive, something that piques Frank’s interest and makes him wonder what that says about Gerard’s personality. It has nothing to do with the way his hand commands the pen, the muscles flexing and changing the pattern of the veins running up his hand.

Gerard actually answers most of the DVD review questions without a hitch, throwing in little explanations as to how he remembered certain things by associations to comics – which Frank thinks is fucking awesome even if he doesn’t elaborate any more on his enthused, “ _Sweet_ ,” though he’d like to. Even though Frank hadn’t exactly expected it to, the drug test goes swimmingly and then they get down to business – signing W-4s and I-9s and all kinds of other legal hoopla that require signatures, initials, and dates under Frank’s guidance. It’s boring, and Gerard occasionally asks questions, leaving Frank simultaneously grateful (to get to veer from the mundaneness of his usual workplace script) and a little bit anxious (for exactly the same reason). He answers each of the questions to the best of his abilities, makes mental notes to ask Donna about the ones he can’t, and sighs when his stomach gurgles an angry sound.

“Sorry,” he says, chuckling awkwardly when Gerard looks up from the stapled papers of the employee handbook with wide eyes. “Skipped breakfast.” For a moment it looks like Gerard’s going to say something, but the look of curiosity passes and Frank clears his throat, continuing on to explain how the teletime system works. Gerard asks a few million questions (and Frank doesn’t blame him because it’s seriously confusing as fuck) and Frank finally ruefully admits defeat, “You know what, I’ll have you ask Donna because I don’t actually use this to clock in.”

After all is said and done, and Gerard has his ID badge and a schedule for his first week, he comes back to Frank’s office, knocking his knuckles lightly against the frame. “Hey, Frank. Donna said you have some, uh, training manuals?”

“Oh, right, yeah. I do.” Frank doesn’t know why his cheeks feel so hot. “No one ever actually asks to do these on time. Usually I’m the one harassing them to come in and get them done.” He digs through his drawer of files for the take-home tests and then gets on his tip-toes to reach for the training booklets, the tips of his ears burning even hotter than his face. “Here you go,” he says, smiling as he hands the stack to Gerard. Their fingers brush and Frank nearly apologizes for it.

“Thanks,” Gerard mumbles, ducking his head all bashfully.

Frank smiles and says, “Yeah,” all softly in lieu of telling Gerard that it’s no problem, he’s just doing his job. 

It gets kind of awkward when Gerard doesn’t leave right away; he just sort of hovers and inches toward the doorway, and then says, “Thanks, again,” and power walks away from Frank’s office, past Donna’s open door and out of sight down the hall, his cheeks stained a pretty red against all that pale and black.

“Christ,” Frank mutters to himself.

 

*

 

After hours of logging the paperwork from orientation and scouring the internet for alternate avenues of gaining applicants, it’s five o’clock on the dot and Frank’s already got a cigarette in his mouth, fumbling through his pockets, as he trots down the stairs and out the front doors. He finally finds the awesome lighter Dewees got him for his eighteenth birthday. He loves the thing because it looks like the one the Winchester brothers toss down into graves to toast ghost bones.

It’s windy, and overcast like always, but the house isn’t too far of a walk and –

“Um.”

Frank wheels around.

It’s Gerard, fingers twitching and face red as he stutters out, “Can I get a light?”

Unable to help himself, Frank smirks, a slow spreading thing, and says, “You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you.” An easy line, too – not overly invasive or too assuming. Nice.

“It would’ve worked a little easier if you’d come out after orientation like I’d been expecting,” Gerard says, chuckling nervously. He swipes a flittering hand through his hair and it falls right back into place all fluffy and disheveled. Stepping closer, Gerard’s fingers twitch toward Frank’s hand. “Instead, I’ve been standing out here since noon, freezing my ass off.”

So it _is_ a line. “Right,” Frank laughs, stepping closer as well. “Here.” Pressing the lighter into Gerard’s palm, Frank takes a shaky breath and shoves his hand back into his pocket. It’s fucking weird, when he thinks about it, because that’s probably the only possession he doesn’t ever actually _share_ with other people. (He’d actually bitten Hambone on the face once for trying to nab it.) Not to mention, there’s also the fact that his own cigarette’s getting a bit soggy and limp, neglected between his lips.

He tries not to watch as Gerard lights it, takes a first drag that has Frank itching to have his lighter back right the fuck now. Gerard grits out, “Agh. Thanks, man,” and offers it back.

“You’re welcome,” Frank returns as he accepts it. The silver metal is warm between his fingers. He finally lights up, sighs blissfully, smoke curling around his face like a sated dragon bathed in fucking gold – yes, it is _that_ good. “I feel like Smaug right now.”

Choking on a laugh for a few seconds, Gerard coughs and nods in agreement. His skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles around his next drag. After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat, taking a half-step to the side, and then starts shifting from side to side. “So, um,” he starts, ruffling his hair again. Nervous habit, Frank takes. “Would you, maybe, want to go with me to lunch? Er, early dinner or – do you like pizza?”

This time, _Frank_ is the one who half-chokes on his next drag. 

The door jingles and Donna comes out of the building doors, fumbling with her keys as she answers the on-call phone. She doesn’t look over, and Frank thanks his lucky motherfucking stars. Which sounds kind of douchey, but he’s not exactly out to his coworkers and he doesn’t plan to be anytime soon, thanks. He knows that they look like they’re flirting – bodies oriented toward the other’s, smiles on their faces – and that’s something he doesn’t want to share.

After she’s gone, Frank goes, “Who doesn’t like pizza?” turning to Gerard and –

He’s gone.

Well.

 

*

 

Frank doesn’t hear from Gerard again until Friday afternoon, and Gerard starts talking before Frank’s even gotten the standard phone greeting spiel out, rambling a mile a minute about generic versus name brand until he finally just decides to go with generic brands, apparently, because they’re cheaper and hangs up.

“Um?” Frank says at the dial tone and then starts laughing hysterically. Because what the fuck? Who actually _does_ that?

Christy calls in, “Who was that?”

“New hire,” Frank replies around a chuckle.

She peeks into his office, her head visible around the doorframe. “He’s weird.”

Smiling – a fake, tiny, bitter thing – Frank goes, “Yeah. Kinda,” and keeps typing up his report.

Lady’s a dick.

 

*

 

Monday morning, Frank gets to work fifteen minutes early. He doesn’t mean to, really, because there’s no way he’d ever want to be stuck answering phones for longer than absolutely necessary, but he’s there so he figures he should unroll the lines anyway.

And _of course_ it rings non-fucking-stop. Half of the issue is scheduling, which he can’t even fix because he’s busy answering all of the other calls in the world. So he’s still juggling lines when Donna comes in and asks why Frank hasn’t added the new caregivers’ availabilities to the computer system and Frank is about three milliseconds away from throwing his shit down and doing some melodramatic “I FUCKING QUIT” scene. But he doesn’t. 

Because he needs this job. To pay for school, to save up to move out.

Seven million people, or so it seems, come in to apply for caregiver positions and Frank spends his morning and well into his afternoon sifting through them, conducting interviews, and filling out paperwork.

Christy comes in around one in the afternoon, talking about how she was running errands because her mom’s coming into town, like she has to justify her actions to them or something. Frank doesn’t really care what she does – she’s the owner, so maybe after however many years of keeping this business afloat, she deserves as much time off as she pleases. He only wishes she’d afford him the same courtesy and just assume that Frank is always trying his best to choosily hire according to Donna’s guidelines-of-the-moment instead of being up his ass about it. And when Christy later asks, “Frank, are you busy?” and subsequently sends him on a collection run, Frank wants to point out that this is exactly _why_ he can’t get any work done.

It’s non-stop work work work all day long; Frank barely gets a chance to actually _breathe_ and bathroom pit-stops hardly exist on days like these, so Frank doesn’t even pretend to push it with smoke breaks. He’s just about ready to cry joyful tears when the clock finally tells him to get the fuck out of there.

But Gerard’s coming up the stairs as Frank’s going down, not even looking up at Frank as he passes by, palm skimming the bannister.

“Gerard,” Frank hears himself say, and when Gerard wheels around to face him, Frank doesn’t actually have any words ready. He wants to say he’s sorry, but doesn’t know what for, and he wants to say a whole flurry of other things that don’t make any sense whatsoever. He wants to bitch about his day and ask Gerard about his and he wants to talk about comics and movies and books and music. Instead, all he says is, “Hi.”

“Hey, Frank,” Gerard says, and he smiles the shadow of a smile, tinged with something dark and resigned around the edges.

“Um,” Frank says, clearing his throat. “They’re about to lock up.”

Gerard sort of deflates, a sight that Frank is becoming familiar with. “Oh,” he says. And then he takes the two steps down so that he’s even with Frank on the landing between the two flights. He’s taller than Frank – no surprise there – but he carries himself almost like he wishes he were smaller. “I was going to pick up some more of those Care Record sheets and drop these off.”

They simultaneously turn their heads toward the top of the stairs, listening to Donna and Christy’s chatter as they head toward the elevator, discussing filling a weekend overnight shift with one of the other caregivers. Frank watches them, waits for the elevator doors to close behind them before he reaches out to grasp Gerard’s sleeve. He doesn’t, hesitating. “Come on,” he says with a small smile before he averts his eyes, “I can get you a few more.”

Frank leads the way up the stairs, and tries not to think about how he’s missing his first cigarette of the day or the steady beat of his footsteps against the pavement and hubbub of rush hour traffic during his walk home. Instead, there’s the delicate tinkle of the windchime affixed to the doorknob and the buzz of lights flickering to life as Frank lets them back into the office.

He holds out his hand for Gerard’s papers. The Joneses and Mr. Weston and the Martins – they’re all clients that require multiple hours of uncertified care during the week, like eight to twelve hours daily. Color me impressed, he thinks because that’s a ton of hours for a new hire. Frank sets them face down in the to-file box and says, “Hang on,” before he goes into Donna’s office for more CRs.

Bearing a stack of ten, Frank offers them up to Gerard with a hesitant smile.

“Thanks,” Gerard says, and then he licks his lips and shoves a hand through his hair. Frank’s getting familiar with the hair-ruffling thing too, he realizes. “You know…” he starts, a pained desperation edging into his expression, “I didn’t mean to, like. Come on to you? Back on Tuesday. That was really unprofessional of me, and I’m surprised you still allowed me work for you afterward, especially after we had just gone over the harassment policies.” Chuckling awkwardly, Gerard looks away from Frank’s face, cheeks tinged pink. “I just thought, you know, since it seemed like you were interested in what I had to say during my interview – like, who even knows who Grant Morrison is? Or cares about comics? Nobody did at Barnes and Noble; it was a complete travesty.”

Feeling his own face involuntarily split into a smile, Frank goes, “Okay, seriously. That’s a shame.”

“ _Right?_ ” Gerard exclaims. He trails into a light chuckle. “But, um, yeah. Just – I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t even know if you swing this way or anything. So, yeah. Sorry.”

That is clearly the moment where Frank should say, “No hard feelings,” and move on with his life and the perpetual solitude of full-time-work and full-time-school. But he can’t. He can’t resign himself to that when he knows that he finally has a smidgen of a chance at a relationship – friendship, if nothing else – with someone with which he has so much in common. So he admits, “Actually…I’d really like to get pizza sometime. You’re probably my favorite coworker already, to be honest.”

The grin that brightens Gerard’s face is nearly blinding. “Awesome.”

It doesn’t take long for the antsy feeling to crawl up and down Frank’s spine, cooped up in the same environment he’d had to face for eight straight hours, after all. So he shows Gerard to the balcony outside of the shitty little kitchenette. Frank never actually smokes there because it’s always crawling with lawyers, but it is a pretty nice spot.

“So I’ve never actually smoked out here,” Frank confesses, tapping his cigarette against the edge of an ashtray. “But I did do some studying during my lunch break once. Sat on that sofa. It’s actually really peaceful when there aren’t DA’s giving you the hairy-eyeball.”

Gerard laughs, shifting his weight from side to side. “Can’t imagine having to be up here all the time,” he comments. “Seems so…” He glances sidelong at Frank. “I don’t want to say ‘soul-sucking,’ but well.”

Offering a shrug, Frank says, “Basically. I mean, it could always be worse. At least I’m not stuffed into a cubicle. Here I can even listen to Pandora without being judged. Much, anyway.”

“Which stations?” Gerard asks. He takes a drag, considering. “Wait, wait. You’re probably the kind of guy that goes by bands, am I right?”

Frank nods. “Black Flag, mostly,” he concedes with a grin. “The Misfits, too, of course. I can’t blast it like I do at home, though. I’d get fired _immediately._ ”

“Probably,” Gerard agrees around a laugh. “You said that Lance and Christy were laidback during orientation, but I couldn’t tell if I should believe you. I figured you’d be much more…relaxed, if they were.” He takes a drag and shapes his mouth like he’s attempting smoke-rings. Frank giggles. “Not to say you have a stick up your ass, or anything.”

“No, I so do,” Frank confesses, pulling a face. “It’s terrible. I mean, they’re laidback in the way that they wear jeans four out of five days a week. But, ugh, they’re all super-conservative Christians – not that there’s a problem with that if you don’t impose your fucking views on others – but Christy’s dad was a _preacher_. From the _South_. She already frowns at me enough about my tattoos. I have to be so fucking careful around them; it kinda sucks.” He takes a deep breath, thinks _fuck it_ wholeheartedly. “Wonder what she’d do if I told her I suck dick.”

The spluttering noise doesn’t really surprise Frank, but the subsequent coughing and hacking sort of does, because he hadn’t intended on _killing_ Gerard. Just…not-so-subtly letting Gerard know that Frank’s free game. “Can’t imagine,” Gerard eventually wheezes.

Frank finishes his cigarette in silence, fighting his smile hard.

 

*

 

The next morning, Frank wakes thirty minutes before his alarm. He hears his mom start her car outside his window, come back inside for something she forgot, and then drive away, leaving Frank to his own devices – which obviously includes lying in bed with his favorite fleecy blanket drawn half up his stomach, warmed by the rising sun slanting in through the curtains.

Resting his head back on a crooked arm, Frank dozes, half-dreams playing out before his eyes as he lazily strokes a hand up his inked chest. The webbing looks dull in the morning light and Frank can’t help but softly trace the lines.

While he’s still debating on whether or not to jerk away his morning wood, Frank’s alarm goes off and he hightails it for the shower, figuring he might as well just take care of that in there. The house’s air is cold, making his skin draw tight as he huddles into himself for warmth, waiting for the water to heat. He shuts the door, turns on the vents, and strips. Steam begins to billow from behind either side of the shower curtain, heating the bathroom into a little hotbox of warmth – which, yeah, is really redundant, but it’s early and Frank is still only half-awake.

By the time he’s pissed and actually remembered to get in the shower, Frank doesn’t have time to spare to do more than perfunctorily shower, even going so far as to brush his teeth while he’s still being pelted with warm water even though he really wants to just get a hand on his dick.

It’s slow going, but Frank eventually gets out, dries off, and dresses in appropriate work attire – slacks, button-down, tie – sighing when he shoves his feet into his oxfords.

He’s really fucking happy his mom finally splurged for Christmas and bought them a Keurig because coffee-on-demand is way nicer than waiting for an entire pot to percolate. Instead, he’s filled his travel mug and toasted some PopTarts, effectively checking coffee and breakfast off on his pre-work to-do list. It’s nice to have the house all to himself – especially when it’s barely bright out and he finds the post it note on the table that says his mom’s working late, to fend for himself on dinner, but she’s picking up ingredients to make lasagna tomorrow night.

Frank can work with that.

 

*

 

“Companion Senior Care, this is Frank.”

“Okay, so there’s a distinctive difference between creamer and Cremora, or so Shirley says, and I’ve sent just about every employee in Whole Foods on a search part for this ‘Cremora’ stuff, so if they can’t find it, should I just go with regular creamer? She said she eats it in her cream of wheat…I’ve never even heard of anyone doing that, so should I just assume she means coffee creamer?”

Frank’s kind of stunned silent, because Gerard can _talk_ and now Frank’s to the point where he doesn’t even have to ask who’s calling because Gerard’s the only person that barely waits for Frank to end the greeting before he goes off on whatever crazy grocery store adventures he’s having.

“Yeah, okay, so two have come back and said that they don’t have any clue what I’m talking about. I looked it up on my phone, though, and it looks like creamer so I’m just going to get regular liquid creamer and hope for the best. I mean if I have to make another trip, Shirley won’t kill me, right?”

“Uh –”

“Thanks for your help, Frank! I’ll talk to you later.”

 

*

 

Two Friday mornings later, Frank arrives at work, still bleary-eyed from waking up later than he’d intended from a late night with his Comparatives textbook.

He’s fumbling with his keys as he rounds the corner, thinking about all of the emails he has to send and all of the phone calls he has to make.

“Frank, hey.”

“Oh, my f – Gerard,” Frank says coolly, clutching at his chest like he’ll be able to squeeze his heart back into its normal rhythm. “Hey, Gerard.”

“Hey,” he returns, looking brighter in the eyes than Frank has ever seen. “I don’t actually need anything, I just figured, um. Well, Shirley says I need to quit ‘pussy-footing around’ and properly ask you out on a date. So.” He smiles, all hopeful and eager. “Frank, would you like to go out on a date with me tonight?”

Clearing his throat, Frank sort of giggles and ducks his head. Old ladies know what the fuck they’re talking about. “I, yeah,” he says. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Awesome.”

 _Again with the blinding smile_ , Frank thinks, returning Gerard’s with one of his own.

 

*

 

There’s a little vegetarian pizzeria about a block and a half away from Companion, one that Gerard has, apparently, never seen before. It’s right next to a little hole-in-the-wall place called The Diner, which gleans a squawk of incredulous glee – “It’s really a diner called _The Diner_? Fucking classic. That could totally be worked into one of my comics!” -- from Gerard after Frank says, “Oh, come on. Everyone knows about The Diner.”

There’s an understandable, undeniable tension in the air between them – Frank careful with each word and every move, trying his hardest not to accidentally say something that might send Gerard packing, running for the hills, as fast and far away from Frank as he can because he actually _likes_ the guy. But eventually, he figures out _that’s_ where the tension’s coming from.

“Okay, fuck it,” he says, folding his menu. “We’re gonna splurge and go for bacon and four-cheese, alright?”

Gerard smiles, beaming his tiny teeth down at the tabletop all bashfully. “Sounds good. I didn’t know you were a vegetarian – and let me just say, I am really going out on a limb here, because you don’t know how much I love pepperonis, alright?” He takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper and twirls the straw around the rim of the cup. “It’s a pretty serious relationship, Frank. I don’t know if you’ll understand.”

Frank snorts. “Well, Gerard. You’re about to witness my own affair with facon firsthand. I’m not really sure if you’re entirely prepared to see this.” He sips at his own drink and tries, but fails, to keep a straight face, ending with them both snickering like a pair of fools.

The pizza comes soon enough, and Gerard doesn’t absolutely _love_ the facon – “It’s just not the same, Frank. Real bacon. _Real_ bacon is to die for.” – but he puts up with it, and gives the fallen extra bits of his to Frank.

There’s a bit of lull in the conversation as Frank flounders for some proper first date questions to ask, and figures that since normal people have the, “What’s your favorite color/movie/place?” kinds, and that they’re both far from the average bear, that he should bombard Gerard with things vital to their potential relationship. Marvel versus DC sparks a very heated discussion about smaller publishers and then movies based on comics and before they realize it, it’s nearly eight o’clock.

“Naw, _shit_ ,” Gerard says fervently, squinting at the screen of his phone. “I was supposed to nap before my overnight tonight. I’m going to be fucking _wired_.” He doesn’t look too upset about it, though, still smiling contentedly at Frank as he tosses his intricately folded paper napkin onto his empty plate.

“That with Mr. Hill?” Frank asks, tossing his napkin too. He adds a few more dollars to the table, because he’s worked in food service before and he knows how shitty the pay is. “I thought Donna got Marge to cover that one…”

Gerard’s smiling down at the table where Frank’s laid the cash when he says, “Yeah, no, she’s got tomorrow night. Er, well, Sunday morning, I guess. Since I have Saturday morning and afternoon _and_ evening.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Frank enthuses. “That’s a lot of hours, man. And it’s only, what, your…third week?”

“Fourth, actually.” Shrugging, Gerard leads the way out, holding the door open for Frank. “Yeah, well. I like helping. It makes me feel like I’m actually contributing to the world, ya know?” There’s a bit of a darkness that passes through Gerard’s expression, all but gone in the next second though it lingers long enough for Frank to glimpse.

“Hm. Guess so,” Frank muses, shuffling his feet. The cold bites at his cheeks, nose, and knuckles, so Frank flips his jacket collar up, huddling in close with his hood around his ears. He’s normally already home by this hour – as evidenced by the flurry of texts sent from his worried mother, the _Where are you?_ and the _Are you working late, Frankie?_ and then the _Call me if you aren’t coming home._ – and it’s more than likely the dark that has his teeth chattering.

“So, Frank,” Gerard drawls, one side of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “Am I going to tell Shirley that her advice was worthwhile?”

“I think that’d be safe to say, yes,” Frank returns quietly. And the moment sort of stretches between them, awkward once again, now that the fuck-it attitude is all but gone. 

“Well, then,” Gerard says, edging closer to Frank. “I guess you’re going to have to brave a ride in my shitty Subaru because I am _not_ letting you walk home at this time of day. Night. Whatever. C’mon.” He chivalrously holds out his hand and Frank takes it…because why the fuck not.

Gerard’s all quiet, only asking Frank for directions every couple of minutes, which makes Frank almost reconsider all the headway they’d made over dinner. He drives sort of like a bat out of hell – honking and swerving into the other lane to avoid the cars inconveniently turning left in front of them, even though Frank only lives like a mile and a half a way – but he holds Frank’s hand over the center console the entire time. Both of them glance fleetingly at one another the entire trip, and by the end, Frank’s just about ready to implode with feelings.

“So, um. You really didn’t have to drive me home,” he finally says as Gerard pulls into the driveway. The porch light flicks on and casts a yellowed glow onto the hood of the car, bringing out the shine in Gerard’s eyes as he looks up at Frank. “But thanks. Really.”

A dog barks, a few yards over.

“Dude, it’s Jersey. Of course I do,” Gerard’s smile makes Frank want to die a little bit. “Plus, I don’t mind at all and I wanted to.”

“Well, thanks…seriously. I –” Frank cuts himself off because he’s starting to sound like a fucking girl, so he just kind of stops, then blurts, “I had a nice time,” because fuck it – he did, he had a really fucking good time. And then he leans over the console, grasping Gerard softly by the back of the neck, fingers carving a path between snarls of hair as his thumb strokes the soft skin right before Gerard’s ear, and guides him in for a kiss.

It’s nothing too intense, really. Just…sweet. Like dessert after a nice din – _Wow, I need to stop._ Frank pulls back, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. “Goodnight, Gerard,” he says, hand on the door handle. “I’ll see you…Monday?”

Looking a little dazed, Gerard nods. “If not, you could totally call or text me sometimes. I’ll be at Fred’s until tomorrow night, but after that, definitely. You should. I’d, yeah…” He trails off into a little chuckle and Frank _has_ to make himself leave then, because if he doesn’t he’ll make Gerard late for his shift.

 

*

 

Frank’s mom likes to rub it in his face about how much cooler than him she is because she’s going out with her girlfriends on a Saturday night while he’s staying in, but Frank just makes noises at her about how he’s wiped from the workweek and he “went on a date yesterday and might actually have a boyfriend, so _HAH._ ” 

“Whatever, Frankie,” she says, ruffling his hair like he’s six, _jesus_. He rolls his eyes and shifts so she can’t see his laptop screen because she’s a nosy little shit, even though he’s only sifting through sources for a research paper. (One day he’s going to leave gay porn up just to scare her off from being so goddamn nosy.) As she’s walking out of his room, she pulls a face and goes, “Don’t wait up!” when Frank asks when she’ll be back.

He lets out a breath and scrolls through another few articles on memory and Persistent Vegetative State and how consciousness affects one’s sense of self. There isn’t too much he can actually do aside from reading and highlighting and making notes and _reading some more_ , so Frank feels a little bit like a zombie by the time eleven PM rolls around. His phone plays the first couple of seconds of “Voodoo Chile,” cuts off and plays it again for the standard thirty seconds while he’s rereading a paragraph and debating on whether or not to highlight. Opting not to, Frank leans over to his nightstand and grabs his phone.

There are two texts from Gerard: _Thank god you already had it saved because i was totally going to have to swing by your house tomorrow._ and _Wow, if that creeps you out i’m sorry._

Frank scoffs and texts back _lol, no creepier than me saving your number from your work profile in the first place._

A few minutes later, his phone goes off again. _Guess you’re right. But then again I had already hit on you so eh._

_eh?_

Some time goes by without a response, so Frank goes back to reading his articles and intermittently scrolling through Instagram and Facebook and Tumblr and Devils stats until half an hour later his phone vibrates over the cover of his philosophy textbook.

_Yeah eh. It’s like meh but more enthused._

Finding himself chuckling aloud, Frank sends back: _i see. how was mr. h?_

He starts closing out unnecessary tabs and windows, saving files, bookmarking pages, and downloading documents that might come in handy later on. Frank ends up losing his phone amongst his blankets as their conversation progresses, telling Gerard about it when it’s recovered, and then ends up texting with him until he falls asleep, still surrounded by books and papers and writing utensils.

A couple of hours later he wakes to find his reading glasses on his nightstand, the lamp off, and his bed cleared of all clutter. Frank scrubs his eyes and furrows his brows as he casts about his blankets for his phone. Squinting at the screen, he scrambles to turn the brightness down after unlocking it, and then thumbs over to his message icon.

_I’m not even sorry, there’s no way that you can even say that with a straight face and actually mean it. Bana is handsdown the worst hulk of all time._  
 _Mark Ruffalo might not be the best – but, cmon ya gotta love the original. Lou Ferrigno will 4ever be my fave. But Ruffalo was pretty damn decent and u know it_  
 _Gramma says hi._  
 _So does Mikey._  
 _I bet you’re asleep now. But srsly. Think about the implications of your actions. Ruffalo > Bana._

Frank snorts. His phone says it’s just after three, and Frank’s half-nodding off even as he types in, _just messing with you. ruffles is actually my favorite, but lou is definitely a close second. bana sucks ass._

In the morning (afternoon, whatever), Frank sees a few more texts from Gerard. Even though there’s some lag time between either of their responses, it’s mostly just continuations of their conversation. It’s easy, is the thing. Almost as easy as when Frank had stolen Hambone’s pudding cup in the first grade or when he’d punched Dewees in the nose for asking out Frank’s girlfriend in ninth. Both cases resulted in instant best friends. Or maybe it’s more like when Jamia had called Frank a pansy after kicking him in the shins for calling her chubby in the sixth grade.

Either way, it makes Frank think that this could be the start of the easiest relationship he’s ever had.

 

*

 

The following Tuesday is payday, which is normally a cause for celebration – because more money in the bank equals a happier Frank – but instead is a source of interminable frustration. Since mid-November and the date of the most eventful “employee separation” he’s ever had the pleasure to witness, they’ve been without a receptionist. Which means that Frank gets to play the part.

And it’s not that Frank minds sitting at the front desk instead of tucked away in his office – except for how he does – it’s just that he’d rather not harass caregivers for updated auto insurance or driver’s licenses or tuberculosis test results. Actually, no. Sometimes that’s kind of fun. Mostly he doesn’t want to hear Donna and Christy bitch about caregivers as they leave – because the harshest comments always seem to be about the ones that Frank has hired.

“HEYA, FRANKIE,” Billie booms. Her voice is the kind of gruff that only sixty plus years of smoking can result in. It’s also loud. Very loud. “I’M HERE TO PICK UP MY CHECK.”

Frank wants to say that, first of all, his name is _Frank_ , and secondly, fucking _duh_. He scans his list to make sure she’d turned in the documentation of her lung x-ray from her last doctor’s visit since she insists that that means she won’t need to get another TB test. “Looks like you’re all clear,” he comments. He digs in the filing cabinet and sifts through the folders for the B’s, vaguely noting the door-chime’s tinkle. “Here you are.”

“THANK YOU, DEAR.”

When Frank looks up from the clipboard of signatures, Gerard’s grinning at him from behind Bev, another caregiver. Frank just barely refrains from blushing. He helps Bev fill out a new copy of a W-4 and then waves her off with her check.

“Did you ever _really_ think about what you do, Frank?” Gerard asks, and Frank tries to think back to their last conversation strain from earlier in the morning when Gerard had gotten home from his shift at the Martins’. But that was something about the fluidity (or malleability, they’d gotten pretty hypothetical) of time.

Brows furrowing, Frank bends to sift through the filing cabinet for W’s. “Whaddya mean?”

“Like how you hire people to spend time with other people.” Shuffling closer, Gerard leans on the desk, fiddles with the stapler and straightens the brochures in the holder on the corner. He hiccups and then goes, “That kind of makes you a pimp.”

“Oh, my god,” Frank laughs, stopping short, because it _does_ , “you’re totally right.”

“Huh,” Gerard says, frowning in return. “I guess that’d make me one of your, uh, harlots.” Then he shrugs and smiles. “I’m not complaining.”

Barely composed, Frank says, “Okay, good news and bad news.” He clasps his hands together and pretends to be very professional – which is really fucking hard to do in front of Gerard, just for the record.

“Bad news is that your first big check falls under the next pay period. Good news, though,” he says quietly, checking over his shoulder. Through the glass panels and dusty blinds he sees Donna on her phone and Christy is nowhere nearby. “Mine falls under this one. Wanna go to The Diner tonight?”

Face puckering up into an expression that Frank can only describe as “AWW,” Gerard shifts from side to side and then looks incredibly pained as he says, “I’d really fu – I’d love to, but I have an assignment at Rambling Brooks before my overnight tonight.” He stoops and rests his palms on the desk, leaning in closer to Frank. “Trust me; I want to. Raincheck?”

Though Frank never would’ve thought he’d had the balls before, he takes a fucking chance and leans forward, grasping Gerard’s face and planting a chaste kiss on his lips. “Deal.”

The grin Gerard offers before he whirls away and out the door can only be described as besotted. 

Frank would say that his day has been considerably brightened.

 

*

 

Lost in the perpetual gray of Wednesday, Frank busies himself with making extra orientation packets. The copier machine heats Heather’s office substantially, and he finds himself rolling his sleeves up to his elbows before he can catch himself, exposing his ink.

“ _Whoa_ ,” she says, eyes bugging at his forearms. “You’ve got a shitload of ink, kid. Why didn’t you say anything?” He loves the fact that she doesn’t filter her sailor-mouth, even in the workplace. It’s endearing and honest, which he loves even more.

While Frank’s sorting the packets and stapling them together, they talk about tattoos and favorite bands and movies they’ve seen recently, Heather an avid New Kids on the Block fan and utterly stoked about their reunion tour this summer. She doesn’t hide her Facebook scrolling, and Frank appreciates it even if he also resents it.

Back in his office, Frank puts all of the papers into company standardized purple folders, complete with miniature journals for the caregivers to keep track of their assignments as well as “Hey asshole, go get a TB test” slips of paper. He’s just barely got them stacked neatly on the corner of his desk when line five rings and he’s obligated to pick up, what with it being the employment line and all.

“Companion Senior Care, this is Frank.”

“Frank, okay, I’m fu – I’m lost. I’m on my way to Arroyo Run and I have no idea where the f – _heck_ I’ve ended up. Can you _please_ help me? I don’t wanna be late.”

There’s distress in Gerard’s voice and, while normally Frank would just transfer the call to Donna because she’s more familiar with the facilities and neighborhoods than Frank, he sets his shit down and rolls back in his chair toward his computer. “Arroyo Run?” he verifies. “When does your shift start?”

“In ten minutes,” he says, words drenched in anxiety. “I can’t be late; it’s a new client and I have to make a good impression.”

“Gotcha,” Frank says, zooming in on the map. “Okay, where are you now?”

A bit of maneuvering, a talk-down, and a pump-up later has Gerard rushing out, “Thank you so much, Frank!” and then he hangs up, probably to rush in and apologize to the client for only being two minutes early. 

Rolling his eyes, Frank tries to wipe away his fond smile before someone catches him.

 

*

 

_Ready to collect._

Frank frowns at his phone and texts Gerard back a series of question marks because they haven’t made any bets (well, legitimate ones) recently and so he’s fucking confused. He keeps sifting through his textbook for that one quote on senses of self before his phone buzzes “Voodoo Chile” again.

_The raincheck? Do you have time 2nite b/c if not I can wait til next payday_

With a mental forehead-slap of remembrance, Frank shoves his book off of his thighs and texts back, _right. ready when you are. the diner has the best fries in the world, so prepare yourself._ He strips and takes a ten minute shower and brushes his teeth and even manages to gargle some mouthwash before the doorbell rings and Gerard’s smiling – dressed in a loose sweater, tight jeans, and a pair of combat boots, _wow_ – and saying, “Hey, Frank!” 

Gerard drives them to The Diner with minimal casualties (a near-fatal experience for a squirrel) and they get a booth in the very back corner. “Agh, god, this is fucking awesome; the grill is right there and there’s a counter with swivel-stools. Frank, this is – gah.” 

In return, Frank can’t help but smile and insinuate a foot between both of Gerard’s. 

Their waitress is a lady named Val and she’s super nice and calls them both “hon” and winks like she’s in on their secret. She brings them a massive basket of fries and doesn’t bat an eyelash when Gerard asks for a milkshake to dip them in while Frank opts for their super-secret fry sauce. They end up trying each other’s concoctions and giggling about Frank interviewing new potential receptionists – “ _She left an automated message about not being actually ready to work. I didn’t even know that was fucking possible!_ ” Gerard practically shoots milkshake out of his nose at Frank’s impression. When they finish up, Frank pays and leaves an extra big tip on the table for Val and only vaguely scans the other booths for familiar faces. 

“ _Fuck_ , that was fun,” Gerard says as he buckles in. The car’s actually looking cleaner than it had been before and Frank doesn’t comment on it but he smiles when he can actually put his feet in the footwell without crunching an empty energy drink can. “I can’t even. Did you see the art on the walls? Do you think that was local stuff? It was probably local stuff. Man. _The Diner_. Wow.”

Frank invites him inside whenever they get back to his house, and they really only stick to the living room, kissing briefly on the couch before Gerard claims he has to go – “Trust me, I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to get fired so I have to.” He tries not to whine too much, wanting more of Gerard’s lips and hands and skin, but Frank concedes and walks Gerard to his car. 

“Fine,” Frank says, pressing him against it, hands on cupping Gerard’s face before he kisses him one last time. The drag of his lips is fucking addictive and Frank nuzzles up his jaw to his ear where he says, “Guess I’ll see you Friday night, then,” making sure to leave Gerard wanting more too before he drives away. It seems to work, if Gerard’s shiver and dazed grin are anything to go by.

When he’s gone back inside, Frank goes up to his room and furiously rubs his dick to the memory of Gerard’s mouth hot against his, his body solid against Frank’s as he pressed him against the arm of the couch with his enthusiasm, the way his skin and hair smelled, so close to Frank. At some point in the midst of his writhing, the sheets pull up and the scratch of the mattress is too rough, like the scrape of Gerard’s nails on his sensitive skin. He groans and strokes harder, cries Gerard’s name when he comes.

 

*

 

“Okay, and what about _The Hobbit_? You saw that, right?” Gerard breaks off into a snort, and then says, “Who am I kidding – of course you saw it.”

Frank doesn’t say anything to confirm Gerard’s conjecture, simply because he doesn’t need to. Instead he just takes another huge bite of pizza and _hmms_ so that Gerard’ll continue, even though he really doesn’t need the encouragement. The dude does not need any prompting whatsoever and it’s really fucking nice after a long week of interviews where Frank feels like he’s the only one giving any effort.

“Anyway, it’s still in theaters. We should totally go see it again. And maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll be the only ones in there.” At Frank’s quirked brow, Gerard blanches and then reaches across the table to rest his greasy pizza fingers on Frank’s wrist. “I mean so that we can talk! I don’t mean to insinuate, um. Anything, I guess. I just meant so that we can compare thoughts on plot points and stuff, like –”

Flipping his hand palmside-up, Frank smiles softly and squeezes Gerard’s fingers. “Dude, chill. You’re too young to have a heart attack.” Keeping eye contact, Frank lets his smile slide smoothly into a smirk. “Besides,” he says, “Insinuate all you want.”

“But I wasn’t!” Gerard squawks.

Not even trying to smother it, Frank giggles and then says, “I mean…I don’t _mind_.” He waits a second, watching the sudden understanding melt the worry right from Gerard’s expression. “Ah, there ya go.”

Gerard swallows a little harshly and then says, “Oh.”

“Anyway,” Frank says, releasing Gerard’s hand so that he can attack the extra bits of facon still sitting warm in the pizza pan. “I think we should have a _Lord of the Rings_ marathon and then go see _Hobbit_ in IMAX. Hot dwarves in 3-D and surround sound – I am _all_ for it.” He takes a sip of his water and then smiles as the waitress leaves the ticket on the edge of the table.

 

*

 

Sunday morning, Frank stumbles out of bed at the incessant chiming of the front door, wondering if his mom had already left for work and if she left a grocery list or something for him to take care of later and _why the fuck is the doorbell still going_. The peephole reveals Gerard and Frank swings the door open before he has the mind to realize that he’s still only in boxers and it’s quite literally freezing outside.

“Um,” Gerard says from between like six scarves and a knitted beanie. “Did I wake you? I probably did, I’m really fucking sorry – I was just trying to leave this tied around the –” he indicates to the doorbell with mittened hands, “but it, um. It got stuck and then I was trying to fix it, I’m sorry. Oh, my god.”

Frank, hands shoved into his armpits, can’t find it in himself to care. But he does gesture Gerard inside, mumble, “Hang on a sec,” and then stumble into his room. He shoves some old black sweats on and a worn gray hoodie, and then scrounges up a screwdriver from a drawer in the kitchen. The doorbell keeps chiming and Frank blearily stalks past Gerard back outside to unstick the button.

It stops and Frank can finally see straight.

He looks at Gerard, who’s blushing and turning something over and over again in his mittens.

“Hi,” Gerard says. He chuckles nervously as Frank squints at him.

Which, okay, is probably sort of weird, but Frank had been having this really vivid dream about Gerard looking all bashful and embarrassed, just like this only under different circumstances and a lot less clothed, so he can’t really be blamed for trying to figure out if this is just a continuation of that or if Gerard is literally standing in his entryway. “Hi,” he returns, still staring. He shuffles forward and wraps his arms around Gerard’s middle, nuzzling the bump of his nose into the cool outer layer of Gerard’s scarf around his neck. The fabric smells smoky and sharp, like a walk home in the wind, and then something other that reminds Frank of riding in Gerard’s car.

Gerard mutters something and wraps his arms around Frank’s back in return, warm and solid.

 _Seems real enough_ , Frank thinks, but just in case he’s still dreaming, he lets his hands slide down and sneaks in a quick grope of Gerard’s ass. Gerard jolts with an, “Oh!” and okay, maybe Frank is definitely awake and Gerard is definitely here in his entryway.

“Hi,” Frank says again, the word muffled into Gerard’s clothes. He untucks his face and cranes his head up for a lazy kiss that Gerard keeps emphatically chaste.

“Hey, Frank.” Gerard hugs him back quickly and then unwinds Frank’s arms and tucks something into his coat pocket before he starts unwinding his scarf. He tugs the beanie off, and then kind of holds the articles out like he doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

Frank takes them, and then Gerard’s coat too, and leads him back to his room, draping all of the items on the back of his mostly unoccupied desk chair. “This is where the magic happens,” Frank mumbles, stripping back down to his boxers before he climbs back into his bed to huddle beneath the covers. His alarm clock says it’s not quite seven AM, so Frank says, “Nope. Too early. Bed.”

“Um,” Gerard says, wringing his hands. Frank leans over and tugs him down by the wrist until Gerard finally gets the memo and climbs in beside him. “Okay.”

“Mm.”

Though Frank had been sincere when he’d texted Gerard to just come over after his shift before they got lunch and then started their marathon, he hadn’t quite realized that that meant at ass o’clock in the morning. So sleep first, other things later.

 

*

 

Frank wakes for the second time on Sunday with Gerard’s face mashed into the back of his neck, drool smeared across it and puddling cool beneath his shoulder on the sheets. It’s kind of gross, but Frank wriggles back into Gerard’s body warmth anyway. And it seems as though Gerard had taken off his jeans some point between Frank tugging him into bed and Frank passing the fuck out three seconds later, because _that_ is bare skin complete with a smattering of leg hairs.

“G’rard?”

There’s a snuffle against the back of Frank’s neck, and then Gerard mutters back something unintelligible, half-stuffing a hand beneath Frank’s side. His fingers are warmer than Frank’s skin.

After a couple of minutes of Frank just lying there, staring at the stupid texturing of the wall, he rolls up and knocks the covers from over his chest, making Gerard’s brow furrow. Frank carefully shoves his pillow into the empty space, smiling sleepily as Gerard tries to burrow into it. He crawls up and over Gerard and then shuffles to the bathroom, takes the most satisfying piss of his life – because he should’ve gone when he’d woken up the first time, apparently – and then goes into the kitchen.

It takes a few minutes to focus enough on coffee-making, but Frank manages and sips through his first cup as he fries up some soy bacon until it’s charred around the edges, just how he likes. He burns his fingers as it sizzles and can’t really find it in himself to care because _facon._

He scoops it onto a plate and dabs it off with a paper towel, debates on shoving one in his mouth even though they’re basically molten lava. “Nope, don’t do it,” he tells himself, “Rookie mistake.” Instead, Frank makes himself another coffee and then one for Gerard. Balancing it all is sort of a feat. Frank is really fucking proud of himself for making it all the way into his room without spilling a drop of coffee or a single crumb of deliciousness.

Frank kicks his bedroom door open and hurries inside before it swings back shut. Gerard’s still snoring into the pillows, so Frank sets the coffee intended for him on the nightstand and then sets up camp at the foot of his bed – coffee, laptop, food, Gerard. _Check._

He’s about halfway into finishing up the sources on his research paper when Gerard starts making huffy noises and twitching like he’s about to wake up. Frank’s almost tempted to do something stupid, like shove a dirty sock under Gerard’s nose, but instead he just snickers to himself and types up a few more source edits, sipping on his coffee and digging his toes under Gerard’s nearest calf.

Gerard turns over onto his back, ankles knocking Frank’s, and stretches, smacking his lips and making all kinds of groaning sounds. 

It’s sort of awesome, Frank thinks, to have someone waking up in his bed, being the first thing Gerard sees and all. And Gerard’s just watching him, smiling softly with his head pillowed on his arms, ribs stretched, rising and falling with each easy breath.

Though Frank’s technically focused on finishing up his paper, he can feel Gerard’s eyes on him when he starts skimming his fingertips across his chest, the notches of his ribs, and the softness of his belly. When Frank spares a sidelong glance, Gerard’s eyes are full of heat – and maybe that eye contact is what makes Gerard’s breath hitch, because Frank’s must be an echo. And while the sheets are strategically pooled, Frank is almost positive he sees an impressive half-bulge of morning wood. He quickly looks back at his Word document, thinks a whole-hearted _fuck it_ –which seems to be a recurring theme as of late – and looks back to Gerard…

…whose voice is rough when he asks, “Would you mind if I sucked you off while you finish your paper?”

Frank’s stomach bottoms out. “Uh, _no_.”

“Because I’ve been thinking about it for a while – ever since you said that you sucked dick, ya know, when we were out on the balcony. That totally made me want your dick in my mouth.” Gerard continues rambling, and Frank’s sort of stuck watching the words shape Gerard’s mouth. “Dick sucking by associative thought, I guess. Hah.” His entire body feels on fucking fire and it doesn’t get any better when Gerard’s hand trails down below the sheets to what Frank imagines is probably the waistband of Gerard’s boxer-briefs, just toying with it, and wow Frank is incredibly unobservant. “So can I, Frank? Please?”

Though his mouth is dry as all fuck and his breath is shaky, Frank manages, “You have to ask?” and then an enthusiastic, “ _Yes_ , Gerard, you can. Oh, my god.” After he gets that out, and Gerard shifts to sit up, Frank’s practically scrambling to toss his laptop onto his dresser at the foot of his bed.

“Wait, wait,” Gerard says, hand on Frank’s ankle. “I said _while_ you finish your paper.”

With a gulp, Frank thinks it’s a definite possibility that he might not survive this. “Oh, my god,” he repeats.

Gerard smirks and says, “Okay, so this would probably be best if you sat at your desk instead of on your bed – if that’s alright with you,” and then laughs when Frank can’t scramble over fast enough, almost tripping himself with his laptop’s charge cord and Gerard’s pile of clothes. When Frank finally sits, he almost rolls away in the desk chair. “’Kay, guess so,” Gerard snickers.

“Don’t laugh at me, motherfucker,” Frank grouses, completely and totally embarrassed and yet still excited beyond all belief. He strokes his thumb across his laptop’s trackpad to kill the screensaver and then turns to look expectantly at Gerard.

“Do your paper, Frank,” Gerard instructs, smirking as he crawls to the edge of the bed. He sinks to a crouch on the floor and knee-walks closer, his messy bed-hair falling into his sleepy eyes with his morning wood leading the way. Frank would laugh at how dumb it looks if he weren’t in the exact same boat. He’s smiling wickedly when he flails his hand toward Frank’s laptop and then drops down and crawls beneath Frank’s desk.

Frank can’t even pretend to think about his paper.

As Gerard’s reaching into the slit of Frank’s boxers, he says, “You know, I’ve thought about this like a million times. Only, instead of here, it happens in your office.” And wow, his palm is damp and perfect – and then he’s breathing humid air across Frank’s dick, petting across Frank’s pubes and then licking a stripe along his balls with a happy noise. “ _Frank_. I don’t hear any typing.” He nips at the skin of Frank’s sac, breathes hotly and then fucking _sucks it into his mouth_. Where it’s all wet-hot-perfect and so tight it’s making Frank go fucking cross-eyed.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Frank finally roughs, shuddering out a breath as his stomach jolts.

Gerard pulls off, a slick little _pop_ that’d make Frank giggle under any other circumstances, sounds very matter-of-fact when he says, “No, I think I’m gonna fuck _you_. Later, anyway.” It’s more like he’s musing than actively trying to be sexy and that’s probably what makes it so ridiculously hot.

Slumping to his elbows on the desk, Frank breathes out, “Shit,” and tries to keep from humping Gerard’s face. He’d say he’s mostly successful, but regardless, the noises Gerard makes against his skin are not unhappy in any way.

“Frank,” Gerard admonishes, voice echoing loudly from under the desk. He tightens his grip around Frank’s cock, tugging just a little harder and a little faster. “Type your fucking paper.”

Grumbling to himself, Frank focuses his vision, ignoring Gerard’s hand so that he can actually see his screen. He really does need to do a last read-through before he emails it in, so he scrolls all the way to the top and – wow, that has to be Gerard’s cheek, soft skin with the barest scrape of stubble, and then that’s the sharp jut of his nose, then the slip of his lips. “Oh, my god,” Frank wheezes.

He’s about three seconds away from scooting back and flipping the desk over when Gerard finally takes him in, just the head, and then makes a frowny noise and pulls off. Gerard tucks Frank’s dick back in and then wriggles his boxers down, urging Frank to lift up to get them down, leaving them caught around one ankle. “There we go,” Gerard mumbles, making a happy noise before he starts laving up and down and all around Frank’s cock.

After a few more strangled noises of disbelief, Frank doesn’t make much noise – instead he’s blissed the fuck out and basking in it. There are a few curses every now and then, but Frank ends up with his left hand twisted up in the tangled mess of Gerard’s hair when he slows back down. “’s good,” he slurs, just so that Gerard knows. “So fucking good.” Gerard hums something affirmative and then takes him all the way down to the root, swallows, pulls off to tongue at that spot right under the head – and no, that’s fucking it. Frank wrenches forward, actually knocking his fucking face against his laptop and the stapler onto the floor, and warns out a quick, “Agh,” before he comes, _hard_ , down Gerard’s throat.

There’s some indeterminable amount of time where Frank just kind of floats, vaguely noting Gerard talking about god knows what in between cleaning Frank with his stupidly awesome mouth. Frank’s face throbs.

“Think I’d be able to sneak in one day?” Gerard asks absently, and then tongues up Frank’s dick, cleaning up the missed bits of jizz as Frank mostly just gasps at the ceiling. Frank twitches and doesn’t say anything intelligible because his brain is fucking mush at the moment. “I could just stay under your desk while you’re doing your paperwork, or maybe talking on the phone…suck you off just like that. We’ll definitely have to try that one day.”

Unable to help himself any longer, Frank rolls the chair back, yanks Gerard up by the arms and says, “Bed.” 

Gerard clambers up, all flushed, eyes wild, and he looks insanely great, with his white thighs and his soft belly and his sly smile, spread out on Frank’s sheets. 

Frank says, “You’re ridiculous.” He’s grinning like an idiot as he shakes his underwear from his foot and then climbs up over Gerard, knees hitched around Gerard’s hips.

“You like it!”

“I really fucking do,” Frank answers honestly. He slumps down over him, fisting a hand into Gerard’s hair again, tilts his head back and kisses up Gerard’s jaw. “You’re kind of awesome.”

“Only kind of?” Gerard asks breathily, eyes shining as his smile shifts into a smirk. He cranes his neck up and moves to wrap his arms around Frank’s shoulders, but Frank takes him by the wrists and pins them to the pillows up by Gerard’s head.

“Kind of very.” Frank finally kisses Gerard, getting a little lost in how their lips catch, chapped and a little rough. “And by very, I mean completely and totally.” He kisses Gerard again and again, wet and soft as he can, slowly grinding against him. “And now I’ll probably think about your mouth on my dick every time I’m at my desk. Thanks a lot.”

The whole kissing and grinding thing escalates, getting hungrier and faster and more desperate until Gerard whines in the back of his throat, tilts his hips even faster, pulls off with a stupidly comical pop, and says, “ _Frank_ ,” like he’s _this_ close to dying and Frank is his last hope.

“Fuck yeah,” Frank returns. He shifts one of Gerard’s wrists to join the other, gripping them both tight as he trails one of his hands down the soft slope of Gerard’s chest, stopping to tweak a nipple and giggle about it, and intermittently tensing stomach until he gets to Gerard’s junk. Cupping it over the fabric of his boxer-briefs, Frank quietly asks, “What do you want?”

He can’t help but lick into Gerard’s crooked mouth, impatiently dragging a fingertip around the head of his cock through the wetness seeping through the cotton, waiting for an answer. Gerard shakes, though, and bites Frank’s upper lip.

“Ow, fucker,” Frank mumbles into his mouth, laughing and gasping, and then finally relenting, “Okay, okay, okay. Keep your panties on.” He lets go of Gerard’s wrists, bracing himself with an elbow against the mattress so he can cradle Gerard’s head, fingers twining into his hair again, and keeps rubbing over the cotton with his other hand.

The sharp “ughn,” Gerard lets out is nothing short of obscene, all wanting and desperate. Frank makes a note to revisit that, but for now he shoves Gerard’s underwear out of the way and gets a hand on him for real.

His cock is red, shiny with precome and straining toward his belly button. It’s thick in Frank’s hand, and while he knows it’s better not to make comparisons, he can’t help but notice that Gerard is _big_. Bigger than Frank in nearly every sense of the word, and it makes Frank’s mouth fucking _flood_. He brings his hand up, spits in his palm, and gets it back around Gerard’s dick.

Gerard is very responsive, just as noisy as Frank had imagined with the gasps and moans and the fucking _pleading_. Frank doesn’t fucking know how, but then Gerard starts rambling, “Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ perfect, Frank,” and it just goes on and on, and Frank can’t help but smirk like a cocky little shit because _he’s_ doing this. He’s making Gerard fall to fucking pieces with just a handjob.

Frank can’t wait to blow him, finger him, get _fucked_.

So he tells Gerard as much, wrenching Gerard’s head back to bite along his jaw, all the way up to his ear, saying, “You’ve got a nice cock, Gerard. It’s gonna tear me up, huh? Can’t wait ‘til you get it inside me, oh, my _god_. It’s gonna be so fucking good, I just know it.”

Gerard’s hips give a kick and then he shudders and breathes, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” as he finally tenses and comes – shooting up his chest and belly and all over Frank’s fist. Dutifully stroking him through the orgasm and the aftershocks, Frank listens to Gerard’s whimpers and groans, watches the way his body slowly relaxes but for the oversensitized little jolts when Frank traces the flare of his cock with one fingertip. Eventually, Frank brings his hand up and licks it clean, eyes keen on Gerard’s face. Gerard doesn’t seem to notice though, staring up at the ceiling like he’s absolutely lost, so Frank just shrugs to himself and leans down, licking down Gerard’s chest, his stomach, his groin. It’s messy, just how Frank likes it, and tastes musky and bitter when he ventures back up to share a bit with Gerard.

“Fuck,” Gerard squeaks, and then finally responds, taking Frank’s face between his hands and kissing the fuck out of him. “You.”

Frank grins back, cheeky as all get out. “I’m _awesome_.”

Rolling his eyes and flopping back down against the mattress, Gerard says, “Yeah, sure. Sure you are, Fra – that’s a fucking understatement, okay?” He takes another deep breath like he’s weighing his pulse heavy in his veins and spreads his arms, curling a damp hand around Frank’s hip and letting the other hang from the bed where the mattress is exposed beneath the curled up fitted sheet from all of Gerard’s wriggling. “I still can’t feel my toes.”

A giggle bubbles up and Frank careens forward and buries his face under Gerard’s arm. He takes a mouthful and bites down, laughing at Gerard’s indignant squawks and the way he curls up to protect himself.

Eventually, Gerard rolls over, settles more comfortably against Frank, trailing a hand down to rest over inked swirls of script. “Stellar handy, Frank. Ten outta fuckin’ ten. Don’t let anyone else ever tell you otherwise – actually, just to be sure, how about you only give them to me? Then you’ll never be told anything else anyway. Okay? Okay.” He doesn’t even try to muffle his snickers and Gerard just pinches his side, fingers skating over his ribs, and then kisses at the back of his neck all sweet and intimate.

After a few more minutes of cuddling (which makes Frank’s stomach explode – and he’d almost compare it to butterfly’s wings, but instead thinks about the exhilarating rush at the highest point on a roller-coaster where everything just bottoms out right before the drop, because that’s hardcore and doesn’t make him feel as much like a pansy), Frank gets up on his hands and knees, shuffling over Gerard until he can get one foot down on the floor. “We should probably shower, dude.”

 

*

 

After seeing the nine o’clock showing of _The Hobbit_ (where they actually aren’t alone in the theater and that doesn’t stop Gerard from comparing notes with Frank all throughout), Gerard has to go to Mr. Hill’s for a midnight-to-eight overnight, so Frank drops him off there and takes Gerard’s shitty Subaru back to his house. (He’ll admit that the amount of trust in that suggestion kind of gutted him a bit.)

As soon as he walks in the door, his mother’s calling him into the den where she’s sipping red wine from a mason jar and reading under dull lamplight.

“Classy, Ma,” Frank comments.

“Well, _someone_ didn’t do the dishes,” she says pointedly, “And at least I’m not drinking it straight from the bottle.” Then she giggles like she can’t help it and tucks her legs beneath herself to make room for Frank on the loveseat. “Come sit, baby, and tell mama all about your new boyfriend.”

So Frank does, telling her all about how Gerard came to apply looking all spiffy and how he seems scattered most of the time but he’s really just the creative type and then how he’s also really sweet and kind and thoughtful and seems to care about Frank a ton. She pats at Frank’s knee and tells him that that’s all that matters and then pours herself another glass – jar, whatever – of wine, and then offers the bottle to Frank.

They spend a couple of hours there, snuggled up together on the couch, passing the wine bottle back and forth as they update each other on the happenings of their lives. Frank learns that his mom hates her job just as much as Frank does – and it’s mildly hilarious, because it makes Frank feel like he’s middle aged. Like, who’d have thought he’d ever have so much in common with his mom? They talk about pros and cons of quitting their jobs – Frank ends up with more pros than cons and it’s the opposite for Linda. Eventually, though, she just kisses his cheek and says, “As long as you’re happy, kid.”

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, Frank is struck with the memory of the doorbell getting stuck and Gerard shoving whatever he intended to leave back in his pocket. And now Frank desperately wants to know but it’s two in the morning and Gerard’s probably asleep or dealing with Mr. Hill, so instead, he sets his alarm for seven with the title “HARASS GERARD ABOUT THE THING” which he doesn’t realize is completely vague until he’s blearily fumbling to quiet it the next morning.

 

*

 

Monday morning, Frank understandably has a bit of pep in his step, or however the fuck the phrase goes, and when he greets his coworkers, they all look at him like he’s, as Heather so delicately put it, “snorted a kilo of crack cocaine.” He didn’t, of course, and he’d love to tell them all about his adventures in gay sex over the weekend, but for some reason – mostly the judgmental glares and lunchtime conversations about governmental gun control – he just doesn’t think they’d congratulate him.

Christy isn’t actually there again – something about her brother-in-law getting in some kind of accident the day before – so he’s just there with Donna and Heather. The new receptionist quit already, of course, and Frank’s left to pick up her slack. There’s invoicing and scheduling to do – and Frank’ll give a hand with gathering all the Care Records for insurance and whatnot, but he won’t touch scheduling with a ten-foot pole, no fucking way, so he leaves that to Donna. That occupies a majority of his morning along with a couple of walk-in applicants that he just goes ahead and interviews on the spot.

It’s almost hilarious how quickly his good mood fades when he gets back into the swing of work.

As surreptitiously as he can, after he gets back to the relative safety of his own office, Frank shoots a text to Gerard – who should be either sleeping or drawing or maybe hanging out with his brother at this time of day – that says _ever wanted to jump from a high place b/c people?_ After that he doesn’t even get a chance to check for responses because he’s too busy, but around four o’clock, when Donna’s gone to get her granddaughter from school, the door chimes and Heather answers it. Frank hears Gerard’s voice muffled through the walls, hears Heather say she’ll escort him back.

Frank clasps his hands on top of his desk and tries not to flush until Heather disappears back to the front of the office, and then relaxes as soon as Gerard shuts the door, slumping in his chair with a massively dramatic sigh.

Taking the seat opposite Frank’s desk, Gerard’s eyes are all wide and concerned when he asks, “What’s wrong, Frankie? I got your text but you didn’t answer and I got worried so, uh. Hi.” Then he blinks like fucking Bambi and well.

That sort of breaks him a little bit, but Frank stifles the noise and gulps. “I hate my job,” he quietly admits, sheepishly ducking his head beneath the shame it makes him feel. “I have no reason to hate my job other than the fact that the people I work for are closed-minded, conservative bigots. Which, fuck,” he says, “I shouldn’t be saying anything. You like working here, don’t you?” Frank realizes he probably sounds a little desperate and finds that he literally can’t control it.

“I do…but it’s different, you know? Like, Frank…Frank, hey, no it’s okay,” he says, and Frank sits a little straighter, fingers scrubbing repeatedly over his cheeks. Gerard leans forward, hand outstretched like he wants to touch Frank. Instead he fumbles with the stapler, moves around some highlighters, straightens the stack of applications. “You do the whole desk job thing – and I could’ve told you from the very first time we met that you aren’t meant to be behind a desk just from all the twitching and how you just seemed so… _unsettled_ , or something, I don’t know. But, dude, seriously. If you’re not happy, just quit.” Like it’s just that easy, Gerard shrugs.

Frank heaves another sigh, blinking up at Gerard, and then grumbles, “You make it sound so simple.”

“It _is_. I mean,” Gerard starts, trailing off and biting at his lip in a way that is infuriatingly adorable, “I’m happy taking care of the elderly. I’m happy because it gives me plenty of off-time to draw and hang out with you, for example. I don’t particularly enjoy the whole seeing naked, saggy ass thing, that’s just.” He shudders. “Yeah, no. But I _do_ like learning their life stories and cooking them breakfast and getting my ass handed to me in blackjack.” He waves a hand out and then shrugs again. “That’s why I like working here. My gramma always told me that if I couldn’t find three things at a job that make me happy then I should find something else. So that’s what I did.”

Frank wouldn’t say that he’s pouting, exactly. It’s more like he’s just realizing that Gerard’s right, that Gerard’s _grandmother_ is right, and he isn’t. Frank is wallowing in a tub of wrong and he should seriously – _probably_ just. Quit.

“Okay, fine,” Gerard says decisively. “If you’re still waffling, then just give it another few weeks. After that, see how you feel. If you’re still contemplating jumping from a high place, I’d highly recommend switching career paths.” He stands and clasps his hands together. “Alright, c’mon. You need cheering, so cheered you shall be. Did you take lunch today?”

“Uh, n –”

“To Speeding Bullet, then. I’ll head out. Meet me downstairs in ten?” He turns, wheeling around, scanning for others, and then spins back around to lean over the desk and kiss Frank. Gerard’s voice is low, fucking _dirty_ , when he says, “Hey, maybe next time I’ll blow you instead.” With no more than a wink, Gerard’s wrenching the door open and disappearing down the hall.

“Jesus fu – Okay.” Frank scrubs a hand over his face and bites down hard on his lip as he notes the time. It wouldn’t kill him to ditch out early today. “Okay.”

 

*

 

Gerard takes hold of Frank’s hand halfway to Speeding Bullet Comics and won’t let go. (Not that Frank wants him to; not really.) Bright through the veil of overcast, the sun pierces through the clouds and Gerard smiles just as bright. Though it puts a panicky flutter in Frank’s chest – but, no, it’s not like Donna is going to catch them and report back to Christy about how Frank’s flagrant homosexuality has turned him into a truant – he tamps it down and actually really enjoys their little impromptu date of sorts.

 

*

 

It takes time, of course – hours and days and weeks – before Frank finds all the bullshit at work bearable again. (It’s a lot easier knowing that he has Gerard to look forward to after work some days.) Wasting time with running deposits and transporting caregivers to and fro helps out more than Frank had thought, like just half an hour out of the office and away from the phones works more of a miracle than God can himself.

Frank really doesn’t mind leaving the office. In fact, it’s his favorite thing about this whole fucking job. 

At three on a Thursday a few of weeks later, Christy calls about an intro she totally forgot about, and since Heather’s out doing a QA and Donna needs to stay to work on scheduling, she tells Frank that she’ll pay him mileage and a trip fee if he’ll do it. Of course he doesn’t say _no_. So he walks home, dusts off his car and hightails it to Windover.

There are a few minutes where Frank forgets half of what Donna had told him before he left, but then he gets into the groove, telling Karen where Ms. Sharp’s doctor’s office is located, that she’ll be driving Ms. Sharp’s car, that she’ll fill out all of the paperwork for her when they arrive. Frank actually really likes Ms. Sharp, mostly because she has the driest sense of humor and it cracks his shit up. He ends up staying later than he should and actually makes them a little late because Ms. Sharp starts telling him about going dancing after the war – and she lets him blab on about Captain America and the movies with Chris Evans.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ms. Sharp says drily, “Evans is a hot piece of ass, but serum or no serum, nobody was that built back in the forties, except maybe the strongmen in the circus. It was military-type rations for everybody.”

Frank barely catches himself before he agrees, and instead asks about the war and growing up and in turn she asks about his tattoos and what they mean to him. He’s also mildly positive that she used to be a Hell’s Angel, so he asks about hers too.

Needless to say, Karen’s the one that finally pulls them apart, urges Ms. Sharp to get ready. Frank helps her get Ms. Sharp’s walker into her car and then waves them off.

Just as a courtesy, Frank calls the office to give a heads-up that he’s on his way, but Heather answers and asks about Ms. Sharp. They end up gushing about her and how she’s a total badass and Frank feels like a fucking weight has been lifted, if only for a moment, because _this_ is what he’s needed. Donna lets him head home instead of coming back to the office, so Frank promises to bring her treats in the morning and heads home. Thirty extra minutes off makes a gigantic difference, and when Frank gets home, he has a message from Gerard that reads _I hope today was better_ just like they have been for the past three weeks (which is _sad_ now that Frank thinks about it) and then _I have an overnight tonight but I can drop by tmrw AM b4 u go n??_

After laughing about how Gerard’s grammar diminishes into text-speak like he got too tired to try, Frank replies with _YES PLS. btw, it’s the small things. today wasn’t so bad. thx tho xo_

 

*

 

At ten after seven, Frank’s mom knocks on his door and shouts, her voice thankfully muffled through the door, that he should get his ass up and in the kitchen pronto. Frank grumbles something incomprehensible into his pillow in return and promptly falls back asleep because his alarm doesn’t go off for another _twenty five minutes, Ma._

“Frank?”

With bleary eyes, Frank angrily squints up against the brightly outlined silhouette and grumbles something that might sound like a pissed off, “What?” but probably sounds more like audible keyboard smashing. He hears a giggle – that isn’t his mother’s – and rubs at his eyes. “G’rard?” he slurs.

“Morning, grumpy,” Gerard returns, sitting on the edge of Frank’s bed. His smile is beautiful, etched with exhaustion in each corner, and the best thing Frank has ever seen first thing in the morning.

Frank shuffles closer, nuzzling his face into the outside of Gerard’s thigh, and wraps an arm around Gerard’s waist, fingers digging into the soft, wrinkled cotton of his shirt. It takes more than a moment, but then he manages to sit upright and notices – “’s that coffee?” He does his best puppy-eyes and leans to smush his face against Gerard’s back, meeting his eyes in the mirror on the closet door. 

Laughing, Gerard turns and hands the mug to Frank. “Your mother is a very nice lady.”

With a splutter, Frank gapes and then says, “Oh, my god,” into the coffee as soon as he has his breath back. He knew the coffee tasted familiar – fucking Keurigs – and he knew he didn’t imagine his mom earlier, oh god.

“She invited me to dinner on Friday night,” he informs Frank, almost hesitantly, “and I told her yes. She said she could make lasagna if I brought wine.”

“ _Lasagna_ ,” Frank enthuses. “Sweet.” He watches Gerard’s expression skate from pinched to relaxed, the way he ruffles his hair and scrunches his mouth to the side in a lopsided pout. “I mean, don’t feel obligated at all. We haven’t even been dating all that long; Mom won’t care.” Shit, it’s been what? Six weeks? Or maybe longer, Frank is absolute shit at keeping track so he honestly can’t tell. “Shit, how long have we been dating?”

They argue for a little while, because Gerard wants to say from the time Frank agreed to go on a date with him, but Frank gives that a fervent _um, no_ because they hadn’t actually gone on a date until that one Friday. So they bicker until Frank finally sighs and relents, “Whatever, between six and nine weeks, ugh.” Rolling his eyes at Gerard’s smug grin, Frank says, “ _Anyway_. Like I was saying earlier, you really don’t have to do a whole Spanish Inquisition with my mom. Because that’s what lasagna means; she’s pulling out the big guns, man.”

Gerard kind of deflates – ending his sigh with a “Pfffhh” – and scratches at his nose. “No way, man. Your mother invited me, so I’m going. Not gonna lie – I’ll be the biggest nervous wreck in the whole goddamn world, so yeah, prepare yourself for that. ‘Sides, if I retract my ‘yes’ from earlier, I have a feeling she wouldn’t hesitate to kick my ass.”

Emitting a snort, Frank nods in agreement and then hugs Gerard tighter. Gerard leans in, lips pulled over in a tiny smile, and presses a kiss to the side of Frank’s mouth, mostly because Frank starts squawking about morning breath – “But you’ve had coffee!” “ _Noooooo_ , my mouth is gross.” “Frank, I don’t care about your death breath, fuckin’ kiss me!” – and then that’s when Frank realizes that they’re kind of being _that_ couple.

“Oh, my god,” he says, laughing almost hysterically, “we’re _them_. We’re so _them_ that we didn’t even realize it. Oh, god.”

Polite as ever, Gerard waits until Frank’s wiping tears and finally able to breathe before he asks, “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

Frank sighs, clutching at his rib-stitch and says, “We’re the cutesy, lovey-dovey pieces of shit that I used to throw popcorn at in the movie theaters. Holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, _fighting over who hangs up first_ – holy shit, dude. That’s us.” He tugs at Gerard until he can flop down across his lap, nudging at Gerard’s hand with his head in a _skritch me, fucker_ kind of way.

Gerard obligingly cards through the greasy hair on top of Frank’s head, at the base of his scalp, where it curls over his ears. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Just for that, Frank gazes into Gerard’s eyes until he gets the memo – and then crosses them and pulls a face that gets Gerard collapsing into giggles too.

Maybe they are. Maybe that’s not so bad.

 

*

 

Instead of their usual pizza date the following Friday, Gerard comes over as planned and Frank’s mom gives him the (very) low-key version of the inquisition Frank had been expecting. Frank suspects Gerard had spent a good portion of his afternoon hyperventilating instead of napping if the exhaustion-bruises beneath his eyes and the slight tremor to his hands are anything to go by, and thinks that maybe his mom sees it too.

He’s still scraping melted cheese and tomato from the stoneware when Gerard comes in, glass in one hand and the other gravitating toward Frank’s lower back, sketching out a looping pattern of circles as Frank washes dinner’s dishes. “You okay?” he asks, quirking a brow as he chances a look back at his boyfriend.

Gerard nods, but then his mouth splits in a wide yawn and gives a shiver. Voice tiny and rough, he says, “’m fine.”

Wary, Frank finishes up the pan and dries off his hands. He flicks off a crusty bit of cheese on his double-L knuckle, listens to Gerard’s feet shuffle over the linoleum and his mom answer her cell phone from the den. Turning, Frank finds Gerard close, tiny, quick breaths puffing across Frank’s cheeks and a cornered-crazed wideness to Gerard’s eyes. “Oh, my god, you fucking _liar_. You are not okay,” Frank points out, because he’s Captain fucking Obvious, and then he takes Gerard’s glass and sets it on the counter, tugging him in for a hug. 

Linda’s laughter flares from the other room. 

“I am okay, I think,” Gerard says, but he’s shaking, _trembling_ , and clutching at Frank’s back like he wants to burrow inside. “Just tired. I worked an overnight and didn’t get to sleep and that was a lot of questions.” Those long, stupidly gorgeous fingers dig a little deeper and Frank relaxes into it.

“Whatever, dude,” Frank mutters into Gerard’s neck. He pointedly doesn’t mention the fact that his mom totally went easy on him, even if a few of those were invasive enough for Frank to go _Maaaaaa_ and hide his face in his hands. “Wanna disappear to my room for a bit? We can nap. Or make out. The choice is yours.”

Frank feels the heat from Gerard’s cheeks, but Gerard only sighs into Frank’s neck and shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

Just because he can, Frank turns in Gerard’s arms and gets the shitty mug he made back in the fifth grade for art class (because it had made him laugh hysterically the first time he saw it), all rough and misshapen, and selects a K-cup of decaf because Gerard needs to knock the fuck out. “Creamer and sugar, right?” he asks, fixing it up after he feels Gerard nod.

After a few more minutes, Frank ushers Gerard back into the den and at his mom’s inquisitive look, Frank gives a subtle shake of his head and agrees when she suggests a movie because that’ll work its magic and put Gerard to sleep. She chooses _Arsenic and Old Lace_ because she has a crush on Cary Grant (and happens to own every movie he’s ever been a part of) and, much to Frank’s surprise, Gerard has seen it. Which means that any time he begins to nod off, he starts back awake and starts muttering along with the lines – “Well, how did the poison get in the wine?” – using the 1940s inflections and sounding hilariously unlike Cary Grant. Frank tries not to find it so endearing but he really can’t help himself. 

Afterwards, Ma says goodnight to both of them, telling Gerard it was very nice having him over for dinner and that she hopes she didn’t scare him away. But Gerard just smiles softly at that and Frank twines their fingers together when he mumbles, “Nah, I don’t scare that easy.”

It’s barely even ten o’clock, but from the time Frank takes Gerard’s empty mug into the kitchen and comes back into the den, Gerard has fallen asleep, mouth smushed against the leather cushions and light snores shaping it with every inhale. Because he’s sort of an asshole and completely unable to control his impulses, Frank takes a picture with his phone and sets it to his contact photo before he shakes Gerard awake.

He’s sort of surprised at Gerard’s grumbled incoherence in the place of the earlier quick-response lucidity, like maybe the exhaustion has finally dragged him under its waves and into its riptide after the excess amount of time without sleep. Gerard just reaches out toward Frank like he’s trying to tug him in, pull him closer, keep him near, but Frank just tugs on his arm until he’s standing sleepily on his feet. “C’mon, baby, let’s get you into bed,” comes out like the most natural thing, and even if they hadn’t planned a sleepover per se, Frank’s greedily happy when he finally gets Gerard in his room. 

“Sorry, Frankie,” Gerard slurs, voice deep and gritty with tiredness. He kicks his shoes off and sways a bit when he tries to do the same with his jeans, so Frank pushes him to sit on the mattress and helps tug them off, taking Gerard’s phone out of one of the front pockets and putting it on his desk. Frank helps Gerard out of his button-down – plaid, which Frank had never before seen on Gerard, but totally appreciates – and tells Gerard to go ahead and lie down. 

Frank had never really thought about what it’d be like to share his bed with someone all the time. At least, he hadn’t thought about how it might fit into his present – a shin against his calf, hot puffs of breath against the back of his neck, the overwhelming _feel_ of someone else in his bed and vulnerable in his sleep. And maybe that was just part of being an only child, never having to listen for all of the shifts and groans and strings of sleep-talk that come with sharing a room or feel the clutch of a hand tighten and then loosen on his side that come with bed sharing. He likes how easily Gerard fits himself behind him, just like last time.

It takes a few hours for Frank to get to sleep, chasing thoughts that verge from what he needs to do in the morning to things that make less and less sense. 

In the earlier hours of the morning, Frank hears his mother puttering around in the kitchen before she leaves for work, recalling smudged dream pieces, like looking through fogged over glass, or maybe mirror fragments, and then he remembers that Gerard’s here and the warmth that spreads through his chest makes him smile into his pillow.

Gerard’s hand is a light weight on Frank’s side beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt, all kinds of rucked up from his sleep, soft and soothing. “Know you’re awake, Frank,” he whispers like it’s a secret or like he doesn’t really believe the words he speaks, trailing his hand a little higher up his ribs, tracing over the lines of ink that sweep over his hips. It tickles.

Frank doesn’t acknowledge Gerard’s words; instead he’s content lying there under Gerard’s hand and the heat radiating from his body, listening to the gentle lull of his voice. He knows if he says anything, it’ll sound dumb in comparison, rough and pitchy. But it’s okay, because Gerard doesn’t seem to need encouragement.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here last night,” Gerard murmurs, hand slipping back down to Frank’s hip. 

The morning sun leaves stripes across his skin, highlighting swirls of script that Gerard seems to get caught up in before he scoots down the bed to kiss at them, and then gently rolls Frank onto his back. When he looks up, the light hits Gerard’s eyes in a way that lets Frank see colors he couldn’t before and it leaves him fucking breathless for a moment, and then they’re shadowed again by his next movement. 

“Good morning.” Gerard presses his lips to the bird on Frank’s right hip, then the left, all slow and lingering, and Frank, sleep stupid, giggles at the gesture but Gerard just smiles softly back. “Sleep well?”

Nodding, Frank slips his hands into Gerard’s hair, smoothing it back and then rucking it up, raking his fingers through the mess until Gerard hums and closes his eyes, resting his head on Frank’s thigh. “Did you?” Frank gravels. 

Humming again, Gerard then sighs and blinks up at Frank – 

Who ruins the moment when he kind of hacks up a lung after he chokes on his spit like a fucking idiot. Luckily Gerard just laughs and rolls off, taking the covers with him until he’s all rolled up like a burrito. “Yeah, yeah,” Frank roughs out, “laugh it up, asshole.”

After a quick piss and quest to the kitchen for coffee, they’re both back in Frank’s bed, blinking sleepily at each other as they sip from their mugs. Frank checks to see if a grade has been posted for a test he took earlier in the week while Gerard takes a minute to answer his phone after heaving a great sigh. He clicks around for a bit, refreshing the page. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Gerard says, switching it to speaker phone as he thumbs around on his screen, “that’s no problem. I totally don’t mind.” 

Frank made a ninety-two on his test. _Fuck yeah._

Over the other line, Frank hears Brandy, the newest receptionist, say, “You’re the best; thank you so much!” in that generic way she does right before she hangs up and gives a fucking victory screech. Gerard hangs up and, brows furrowed, keeps tapping away on his touchscreen. 

“What the fuck did you just agree to, man?” Frank asks, setting his laptop to hibernation mode. “Brandy’s going to kiss you on the mouth the next time she sees you.”

Gerard doesn’t even pretend to disguise his shudder. Or the look of disgust.

Frank laughs.

“There’s an eleven-to-two tomorrow that no one else’ll take. Since it’s Sunday and everyone has church or whatever.” 

“Dude,” Frank says, spinning around in the swivel chair to face the bed. “They’re all fucking lazy and you’re working yourself to death. Don’t you have an overnight tonight?”

Chewing on his lip, Gerard locks the screen and tosses it onto his jeans by Frank’s feet. “Yeah, but I get off at eight. I have time for a little nap after that, or maybe you can meet me for pancakes at The Diner. And maybe Jim’ll sleep tonight; you never know with him.”

A sigh escapes Frank. 

“Really, it’s not a big deal. I like the work, remember?”

“Sure ya do, champ. Although, I think you deserve a weekend off. Or twelve.” Frank crosses his arms over his chest, watches the way Gerard’s eyes are drawn to them. He flexes a bit and snorts when Gerard swallows. “You’re so fucking obvious, Gee.”

Gerard retorts with a huffy, “Suck my dick,” and so Frank does. 

Just to throw him off his game.

 

*

 

There are about six hundred rejected applications shoved into one of the drawers in the Great Wall of Filing Cabinets in Frank’s office. He spends most of the next week sifting through for the ones that are older than sixty days, which ends up being a vast majority, and then unstapling them with the shitty little remover thing that looks like shark teeth. Or vampire fangs. 

“Frank, you have a call on line two,” Brandy’s voice says through the intercom on his phone.

“Got it,” he sighs, setting the next packet down. He dutifully says, “This is Frank,” as he fiddles with the corner.

“Guess what.”

Smiling involuntarily, Frank picks at the staple and says, “You’re lost again?”

“Bingo,” he verifies. There’s a honk and Gerard shouts some unintelligible curse away from the phone, then says, “Alright, so I’m at Ms. Sharp’s and I need to get to that new client’s off of Western. Only I have no clue how to get there from here?”

“I will be your beacon in times of darkness, my friend,” Frank mutters into the receiver, the phone wedged into his shoulder so that he can type with both hands. Mapquest is ever helpful and Gerard gets there with ten minutes to spare. 

“You deserve a cookie, Frank. Remind me to give you that cookie later, alright?”

A blush burns like wildfire across Frank’s cheeks and he croaks, “Duly noted,” before they say their goodbyes. He’s really glad that removing staples and shredding papers doesn’t use all that much brain capacity, because he’s spending all that he has on wondering exactly what kind of “cookie” Gerard is going to give him.

 

*

 

Not much in the next few weeks is notable. Frank spends his mornings calling references (just to get it out of the way because he hates it with a burning fucking passion) and his afternoons fucking around in incognito windows looking for a new tattoo parlor to try out. He has a vague idea of what he wants, the barest of outlines in his mind, but he’s hoping to find someone that knows what the fuck they’re doing so that they can flesh it out for him, give it depth and definition. Maybe he’ll talk to Gerard about it.

On a Thursday afternoon, Frank’s in the middle of reading reviews of some place a couple of miles northwest of the office when the phone starts ringing off the hook. Christy and Donna and Lance have all left and it’s only Heather and Frank, and Heather, as sweet and awesome as she is, is really fucking lazy and would much rather continue scrolling through Facebook all the livelong day than actually get any legitimate work done.

“Companion Senior Care, this is Frank. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Frank. My name is Stacey; I’m with the corporate office. May I speak with Christy please?”

It takes a few minutes before the words process – and yeah, there’s Frank’s stomach dropping like a metric shit-ton of bricks. He freezes and goes through about sixteen different things to tell her, and ends up telling a half-truth because he doesn’t want his ass handed to him whenever his bosses get back. “She is not available at the moment. Is there something that I could help you with or would you like to leave a message?” _Nailed it_ , he thinks, because playing the professional role is fucking hard sometimes.

Stacey doesn’t fuck around though. Next, she asks if she can speak with Lance and, though Frank doesn’t tell her that she’d have better odds winning the lottery than ever catching him in the office, he gives the same answer. After that, Stacey goes kind of quiet and Frank wonders what the hell he should do – but then she starts grilling him about where she and Lance are (“I’m honestly not sure.”), if they usually take off afternoons (“It’s not normal protocol, no.”), is he the administrative assistant (“No, ma’am. I’m the Recruitment Coordinator.”), and a few other questions that Frank spits halfway believable answers for.

After the phone call, Frank feels even more tightly wound than he ever thought possible. So he does what his gut tells him to do and calls Christy, relaying the experience to her, and the number that Stacey left.

 

*

 

Friday morning, the bomb drops and all hell breaks loose. 

Actually, Christy is relatively calm, given the circumstances, but she lets Frank know that Stacey will be coming down to do an audit in about a month. “It’s not a big deal; it’s nothing to worry about,” she tells him, only Frank doesn’t believe her because her eyes are as big as the fucking sun. 

She’s not very good at the whole giving direction thing – which is hilarious, given the fact that she started this thing basically from the ground up a whole seven years ago – so Frank spends the rest of the day finding the guidelines on the franchise website. The operations manual actually has a few sample audit forms, so Frank prints those off and lets Christy know. But because she’s fucking helpless, he prints her off some copies too.

Frank feels that the situation warrants allowance for a closed door, so he shuts himself away and starts a pre-audit audit. He gets in the fucking _zone_ , starts a spreadsheet on Excel and feels like he’s really _doing_ something, going through charts and noting all the missing documents, the things that haven’t been signed, and so on and so forth. 

A little after two his phone buzzes with a text from Gerard asking if he’s free to meet for lunch and Frank replies with a fervent, _hell yes._

Coming up for air, Frank opens his door and lets Christy know that he’s going home to eat lunch and that he’ll be back around three.

“That’s fine, Frank,” she says, smiling in a way that asks how much work he’s gotten done, so he tells her and she says, “Awesome. Well, I’ll probably be gone by the time you get back. I have to run some errands and pick up my littlest one from school.” And well, if she feels like she has time to do that, then Frank doesn’t feel bad about leaving for lunch.

Distracted by the dirty gray slush coating the sidewalk, soaking into the cracks of the pavement and squelching each time he takes a step, Frank nearly jumps from his skin when Gerard’s Subaru pulls up to the curb right beside him. The passenger window is down, Gerard’s face lighting up the drab upholstery as he smiles and leans closer to ask, “How much?” and then laugh like an asshole.

After doling a well-deserved punch to the arm, Frank goes, “Free for you, baby,” and doesn’t even try to keep from laughing. “Oh, wait no – I’m the pimp here, remember?” 

Gerard’s voice is alight when he implores, “Please for the love of god, never say ‘pimp’ again,” around surprised giggles. Then he leans over and gives Frank a quick kiss before he pulls back into traffic. Someone honks and Gerard presents his middle-finger salute out the window. “Alright, your house or somewhere special?”

“My house,” Frank answers, rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder. It releases some of the tension. Looking over at Gerard at the next stoplight, Frank takes in the way he sort of bobs his head along to the music and scans all of the traffic and pedestrians and floors it as soon as the light turns green as if it’s a race to the speed limit. And god, even the crazy way Gerard drives makes Frank want to stop everything and just worship the guy. “Fucking work…” he grumbles.

“’s wrong with work?” Gerard asks, concern overriding the expression of concentration. “Something happen?”

Annoyance bites at the back of Frank’s neck again, winding the tension tighter until he feels a grimace on his face. “We’re being audited in, like, a month.” It’s been awhile since Frank divulged company secrets to Gerard, and a quick look at Gerard’s face tells Frank that he has no reason to question Gerard’s trust. “Christy thinks it’s nothing to worry about, but she hasn’t really read the manuals in a while and doesn’t know how many franchise standards we’re breaking. It’s a _lot_. We’re probably going to fail and I don’t think she’ll believe me if I tell her that.”

The driveway is clear and Frank is glad. He doesn’t want to subject Gerard to anymore mom-time than necessary. 

“Well, that’s not your fault,” Gerard points out, killing the engine and stowing the keys in his jacket. “That’s hers. You’ve only been there since, what, October? She knows that, and you’ve said before that they’ve apologized for all the messes you have to clean up.”

Acquiescing, Frank lets them in the house and keeps quiet. He gestures for Gerard to raid the fridge and makes his way to the medicine cabinet for some acetaminophen. It’ll make his stomach hurt later, but at the moment Frank is beyond caring. 

“Sandwiches okay?” Gerard asks, pulling a cucumber, a tomato, some sprouts and the container of cream cheese out and setting everything onto the counter. At Frank’s assent, Gerard’s moving seamlessly through the kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times before – and Frank realizes that he probably has, just not in this same capacity. Gerard does this every day for his clients, the cooking and cleaning and casual conversation, and gets paid to do it all because Frank hired him for exactly that purpose. Right now, though…Gerard’s doing it because he can, because he _wants_ to and that makes Frank die a little on the inside.

Coming up from behind him, Frank wraps his arms around Gerard’s middle and mumbles, “Thanks,” into the shoulder of Gerard’s coat. 

Gerard just pats at Frank’s arm and says, “I don’t mind,” because it’s true, he doesn’t, and then continues washing and slicing and putting together simple sandwiches that mean more to Frank than they should. While they’re eating, Gerard sits across from him at the table, but keeps an ankle adjacent to Frank’s and talks about the trailer for the newest _Iron Man_ movie. Frank gives his input about Tony Stark and Pepper Potts and makes plans to buy them midnight premiere tickets. 

Though Gerard offers to drive Frank back to the office, Frank declines and sends him on his way, opting to take the time to walk in the crisp air of early spring, letting it bite at his exposed cheeks as he thinks. 

 

*

 

Frank’s a little surprised to get a text from Dewees the following week that says _Train Station Blues @ 7 Sat night?_ with a series of emoticons that remind Frank of sexual favors. He barks a laugh and rolls his eyes, sending back, _you know my price!_ and sends one to Gerard along the lines of verifying their weekend schedule. And, like he’d thought, Gerard has a shift that night so Frank is definitely free to hang out with Dewees. Hell, it’s been so long since they’ve talked that Frank isn’t even sure that his best friend knows about his boyfriend.

A few minutes later his phone buzzes with _You got it man, one pack of facon coming right up._ and Frank does a victory fist pump that almost takes his own eye out. 

 

*

 

Work is more fun (all things considered) when Frank has the ability to shut the door to his office and ignore the goings-on around him. When he’s alone with his audit spreadsheets and Pandora and caregiver files, he gets caught in the easy wash of words and numbers. Heather and Donna leave him alone for the most part, and everyone occasionally remembers to divert applicants and inquiry calls to either Brandy or Heather, or Lance if he’s there, so Frank doesn’t have to worry about getting people hired while he’s on such an important mission. But more often than not, he ends up having to encompass the full spectrum of his job as well as taking the reins on the Keep Companion Alive project.

Conducting orientation – for a retired LPN and then a young CNA and a chick in college that keeps making googly heart-eyes at him – provides a nice break just when Frank’s afraid that he’s going to have permanent eye damage from squinting at his computer screen. All in all, it’s fucking exhausting, and Frank is wiped out by the end of each and every day. His mom calls him middle-aged and Frank doesn’t even have the energy to make up a comeback so he mostly just grumbles at her and keeps studying. 

Texts from Gerard help too, whether they’re little encouragements or snarky statements or philosophical musings. They don’t actually get to see each other until Friday night, and Gerard’s relatively quiet and Frank doesn’t feel the need to fill it with meaningless chatter, but they enjoy each other’s company regardless. Gerard squeezes Frank’s hand in the car and walks him in, stays with him until he absolutely has to leave or he’ll be late and presses a kiss to Frank’s cheekbone before he goes. 

Frank spends the next day studying for his test in Comparatives and ignoring everything sent to his phone. Around six he finally responds to Gerard and his mother and James and Hambone, strangely enough, and then hops in the shower.

Six hoodies and a leather jacket probably won’t be enough to keep Frank warm, but he piles on the layers and a beanie and gloves and waits patiently until Dewees honks at him from outside.

“Hey, man,” Frank greets, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Frankie!” As James is pulling away, he says, “Dude, you look a little bit like shit. What’s going on?”

With a sigh and a shrug, Frank says, “Probably fighting something off. But other than that, I’m mostly just stressed the fuck out.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “How’ve you been, man? Haven’t talked to you in a while.” 

James takes a turn at the next light, the street lamp glinting off the hood of the car. A cop pulls up beside them and Dewees goes, “Shit, act natural,” and proceeds to make the most illegal turn Frank has ever witnessed (and that’s saying a lot, because he rides with Gerard on a semi-frequent basis). They’re still cracking the fuck up when they pull into the employee parking at the venue and Frank is reminded of what a fuckin’ whackjob his best friend is when he makes up a secret handshake on the spot with the bouncer as he tells the dude that Frank’s with him.

“I’ve missed you, man,” Frank says, shoving Dewees in the shoulder. “I’ve been so fucking caught up with work and – oh, right. Dude,” he says, taking off his outermost layers and tossing them onto a chair. It’s stuffier in the venue, thus much more comfortable for Frank. “I have a boyfriend.”

“No shit?” Dewees exclaims, clapping Frank on the back.

The first wave of the openers’ fans come in and Frank’s in charge of scribbling the X’s on their hands while Dewees tears their tickets and files away the stubs. They’re always the giggling, squealing middle-school type at first and it reminds Frank of doing the same damn thing when he was that age so he can’t find it in himself, even riddled with exhaustion, to resent them for it. While they’re filing in, Frank fills Dewees in on the essentials about Gerard (yes, he’s super hot, and no, he isn’t interested in a threesome) until they’re on merch duty.

Bryar greets Frank with a silent appraising nod from the bar. The sets are fucking awesome again, and Frank recognizes the dude with the ridiculous shredding ability from the last show. He sings back-up too, and while there’s nothing really unique about his voice, it’s nice to listen to. Frank and Dewees are efficient together and this time, after everything is all packed up, Bryar convinces (“I’m not a fan of under-the-table business. This way we can get you an official paycheck. Don’t you dare tell me no.”) Frank to sign on with them part time over beers and cigarettes.

When Dewees drops him home with a congratulatory wink, Frank waves and locks the door behind himself. He lays in bed with a happy smile on his face, texting Gerard the good news before he falls asleep.

 

*

 

For their next weekly Friday evening pizza date, Frank plans on ordering the pizza to-go and taking Gerard back to his place. Dates are nice and all, but Frank kind of wants to just bum around after all of the chaos of the week. Work leaves him exhausted and school expends whatever is left of his energy. Midterms are coming up, followed by spring break which means – cue the battle drums – Stacey from corporate will be here from Vermont to tear their asses apart, chew them up and spit them out.

“You alright, Frank?” Gerard asks, sparing a glance in Frank’s direction. A car slams on its brakes in front of them and Gerard zooms around, honking and flipping the dude off as he passes him, screaming, “Asshole!” out of the cracked window. 

Giving a snicker, Frank says, “Yeah, man.” He might not be, though. That tension in his neck is still there, present in a headache that hasn’t gone the fuck away in over a week, and his back hurts so bad he’s getting worried about impending kyphosis. “Think I just need a cigarette or a massage.”

Smirking, Gerard says, “Or a good fuck.”

Frank’s mouth pulls down like he’s considering, weighing the pros and cons before he gives an agreeing, “ _Or_ a good fuck.” Looking over at Gerard doesn’t reveal much, just the same rat’s nest of dark hair tumbling across his forehead, the sharp nose and cheekbones, the stupid little red mark beside his eye. And yet Frank’s chest feels like it’ll cave in on itself. “You gonna make good on your promise and finally get your cock in my ass?”

“Promise?” Gerard teases, “What promise?” He swings into Frank’s driveway, popping the curb a bit and narrowly missing the mailbox.

“Son of a bitch,” Frank enthuses, because the garage door opens, and there’s his mother, click-clacking in heels to her car. She looks pleasantly surprised to see them, and saunters toward them and Gerard has the decency not to grumble or groan and instead rolls Frank’s window down. “Hey, ma.”

“Hi, boys!” Linda says as she leans closer. Her hair’s down and her makeup is all done up and her blouse is too low cut and, Jesus, Frank doesn’t fucking want to know, so he doesn’t fucking ask. “You two staying in tonight?”

Frank gestures toward the backseat to the pizza box and says, “Yeah. Just gonna hang out.”

She quirks a brow back at him, and goes, “Yeah? Well, be safe. Make sure to lock the door and set the alarm, kiddo. I’ll see you tomorrow night after work. Bye, Gerard.” A kiss to the temple and she’s off toward her car. 

_Be safe._ “Are you fucking kidding me.” 

Gerard bursts into laughter after she’s pulled away and the garage door is down and Frank is still slumped, mortified, against the passenger door. “Be safe!” he crows, and then, around giggles, “She totally gave us the go-ahead!” 

Frank just says, “Oh, my god,” and gets out of the car, stalking toward the house to unlock it and disarm the alarm, strip off his coat and sink facedown onto the couch. He hears when Gerard comes in, clicking the lock into place and shuffling into the kitchen, and somewhere in the meantime he must begin to doze, because Gerard presses the cool neck of a beer to the back of Frank’s neck. “Mmph,” he grunts.

After a chuckle and the dull clink of plates being set on the coffee table, Gerard says, “Morning, sunshine,” and sits on the edge of the couch next to Frank’s hip. His hand lands, a sturdy weight, on Frank’s shoulder and then his thumb kneads along the edge of a knot. 

“Gah, holy fuck,” Frank says, shifting to the right a bit so that Gerard’s pressing down right into the meat of his shoulder. Sighing, he mumbles, “That’s fucking good,” into the couch cushion. It smells like feet and spilled wine but Frank can’t find it in himself to care. The other hand joins the first, pressing hard into the tightness and Frank groans obscenely, well on his way to boneless. 

“Pipe the fuck down, Frank, the neighbors’ll hear.” 

“Let ‘em,” Frank retorts. “You are working some goddamn magic.” Of course he is, with his long, delicate fingers, all strong and commanding and shit. Frank grunts into the couch again.

It goes on for a few more minutes, until Gerard’s obviously tired and Frank’s stomach grumbles its dissent. The pizza’s lukewarm on the coffee table when Frank’s finally semi-upright, the beers a bit closer to room temperature. Frank flips the television on, scrolls through the movie channels until he finds something suitable, _Die Hard_ , and munches on his four-cheese and bacon without a goddamn care in the world. Gerard smiles over at him every now and again, laughs every time Frank exclaims or quotes along with the best lines. 

After it’s over and they’re discussing the brilliance of Bruce Willis, cuddled together and waiting for the second one to start, Gerard’s phone starts belting out, “ _Are you ready, are you ready for this_ ,” to which Gerard groans. He answers right before the chorus’s second, “ _Another one bites the dust!_ ” 

Donna’s dull monotone comes clearly through the other line and Frank hears the beginnings of an explanation for someone else’s call-in and all he can think is how everyone he has hired, aside from fucking Gerard, is fucking lazy. After Gerard agrees to work whatever shift, hangs up, and logs it in his calendar, Frank explodes.

“Was nobody else in the whole goddamn world raised to work hard? Is that not a redeemable quality anymore? Jesus fucking shit.” He heaves a deep breath, lets it out. “ _Fuck!_ ” 

Gerard blinks at him. Quirking a brow, he asks, “Are you done?”

“No.” Frank crosses his arms and kicks his feet up onto the arm of the couch, flopping down so his head lands on Gerard’s thigh. “Can’t you ever have one _whole_ weekend off? Like, what if I wanted to take you somewhere special? Or just fucking, I don’t know, spend an evening together without any fucking interruptions for once. Is that so much to ask?”

Pissy and irritable. Frank realizes he’s acting like a PMSing teen with angst and frustration broiling in his veins, and yeah, okay, now he’s properly ashamed of himself. Another deep, cleansing breath in and out (that’s really not even half as calming as the hand on his thigh) and Frank’s marginally more settled.

“Okay,” he says. “Now I’m done.”

Gerard goes, “Fantastic!” and slaps a palm down on Frank’s thigh. “Because it’s not until tomorrow night. So quit bein’ a baby and let’s watch this shit.”

“It’s not _shit_ ,” Frank says, rubbing at his thigh. He maneuvers around until he’s tucked half-underneath Gerard, warm and comfy. “Press play, asshole.”

 

*

 

It’s nearing midnight by the time they get their fill of action movies, bickering half-heartedly over stupid things like cushion hogging and remote control possession, and because Frank is a pansy, he’s half-asleep by the time Gerard switches the television off. The screen goes black and the room follows suit, doused into nighttime grayscale, quiet but for the muffled rush of a car passing by and the general sound of the house settling. 

Clinging like a limpet, Frank nearly asks Gerard to carry him to his room, but instead opts to be as burdensome as possible, knocking their legs together off-rhythm and laughing like an asshole each time they stumble. Gerard mumbles something about Mount Doom that gets lost in an _oof_ when he drops onto the bed, Frank spilling over as well.

At half-past something or another, a low rumble of thunder lulls and fluctuates and Frank falls asleep to Gerard’s fingers carding through his hair.

 

*

 

Frank wakes first to the low rumble of thunder shaking the glass in the window panes, each flash of lightning buzzing over his skin as it lights the sky and sends the room into sharp contrast to the grayscale of overcast. Gerard’s there beside him, turned on his belly with his face smushed into the pillow, hair going every which way. His presence feels just as strong as the impending storm outside.

It’s warmed up enough in the past week for the snow slushes to have dried up, soaked into the greedy ground, but it’s still not mild enough to be considered spring in Frank’s mind. Either way, late-winter or early-spring, the bed lacks its usual chill and for that Frank is grateful. He’s happy, soothed by Gerard’s heavy breaths and the light patter of rain outside.

Mornings like these, or afternoons (Frank’s not entirely sure of the time seeing as how his phone is somewhere on the floor and the clouds mask the sun), Frank spends lounging until something pressing weighs on his conscience. But with Gerard in his bed, just barely stirring from his sleep, Frank’s more than content with staying in bed for as long as possible. The covers are strewn over their bottom halves, bunched up between them like Gerard had kicked them away sometime in the middle of the night – probably sometime after they’d gotten too hot and had to separate out their limbs. Frank cuddles up to him now, though, because he’s all pliant and his wrinkled shirt looks appealingly soft.

“Can we have sex now?” Frank mumbles into Gerard’s shoulder, lips catching the cotton. He’s jonesing for a cigarette and he really has to pee – and coffee sounds good, and maybe some bacon too – but the pressure of Gerard’s hip feels great on his morning wood.

Gerard grumbles incoherencies into the pillow.

“Not yet? Okay.” 

Shifting away, Frank pats at Gerard’s side and crawls out of his bed. After he makes a pit stop to the bathroom, Frank shuffles into the kitchen, opening the curtains to get a front row seat for the lightning show, making breakfast to the tune of the thunder. He’s humming Miles Davis’s “Four” and frying up some facon when Gerard comes out, yawning and smiling and sleepily kissing at Frank’s temple. He goes to the fridge, takes out the container of strawberries and blueberries and mumbles, “Wish we had pineapple,” before he strains them through a colander beneath running water.

They’re seamless together in the kitchen, and somewhere between the humming and cooking and joking with each other Frank says, “God, I love you,” and means it with every fiber in his being, chest full to the brim with it when he looks at Gerard’s messy hair and the reddened pillow-creases on his face. 

Gerard is obviously taken by surprise, if the, “Oh… _Oh!_ ” is anything to go by. But he just smiles, beaming stupidly wide in a show of naked emotion, and says it right back. As dumb as it makes him feel, Frank holds Gerard’s hand as they partake in breakfast and share stories about work and friends and childhood, following each other’s train of conversation easy as pie. 

They’re both giddy and still a bit sleep-drunk, and the bed is all too inviting by the time the storm is truly upon them. The lights flicker occasionally, the thunder rattling the windows in the frames as the rain turns into hail and then back into rain and the lightning casting elongated shadows and strange shapes across the house. Back to back beneath the covers, Gerard points out that it makes the world outside disappear, like they’ve either slipped into an alternate reality or some kind of Grimm story and Frank doesn’t disagree. It’s like everything else in the world has been silenced but Frank and Gerard and the thunderstorm.

At some point after imagining other worlds they could be in – “But _space_ , Frank. We could commandeer our own Millennium Falcons or a Death Star or something. That’d be fuckin’ sweet.” – and the end of the deluge, their words turn more serious – like the rain has thrown off the compass, needle navigating just slightly askew, northwest instead of due north or something. But then the thing spins wildly until Frank doesn’t know where the fuck they’re going with anything and Gerard says more than asks, “You meant that earlier, didn’t you.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Frank flips over, gunshot quick, and replies, “Of course I fucking meant that, you twat,” and then more seriously, fiercely still, “Don’t fucking doubt me.” 

With a sharp intake of breath, Gerard’s eyes dart from Frank’s eyes to his mouth and back up. In the next fraction of a second he’s all hands as he kisses Frank, roaming and squeezing and gripping Frank tight, tugging on his hair, rolling them over until Frank’s afraid they might fall off the bed. He’s hard and gasping pretty noises, half-words and garbled phrases into Frank’s mouth as Frank reaches down to fumble their cocks free from their briefs. Frank’s teeth catch on Gerard’s bottom lip and Gerard groans.

“Love you,” Frank whispers, “love you.” Gerard’s hair is soft under Frank’s fingertips, sort of greasy too, but that’s to be expected. 

Hands hungry, mouth hungrier, Gerard moves over Frank, rocking into Frank’s fist and grinding their bodies together until he makes a noise, says, “Clothes,” and sits back to remove them. He pulls his shirt off like a girl – arms crossed to grab the hem from his hips – which Frank finds hilarious and adorable even if he keeps his amusement to himself. After they’re stripped, skin already damp and too hot where they’re pressed together, Gerard runs his hands up Frank’s chest, down his stomach to pet over the birds on his hips. “Can I fuck you Frank?” he asks, eyes blown and mouth puffy, “Please.” 

Nodding consent, Frank motions toward the nightstand – sighing when Gerard doesn’t understand and Frank has to use his words and then get the lube and the condom himself. Chuckling to himself, Frank kisses Gerard and says, “Feel free to join in if you so please.” He snaps the lube cap open, drizzles some into his palm and slathers it on his asshole, shrugging internally as he feels some run down toward the sheets. “Or just sit there and jack it; I don’t mind.” And he really doesn’t, because seeing the way Gerard’s cock fits into his grip and the way he makes a show out of it, flicking his wrist on the upstroke and all of that in a way that’s too natural to be anything but second nature is really doing it for Frank.

“Jesus, Frank,” Gerard mutters. He gets up on his knees, nudging them underneath Frank’s thighs until he’s all spread open, wet and shiny hole completely exposed for scrutiny. Gerard’s fingers prod at his rim and he says, “Beautiful,” which makes Frank crack the fuck up – it’s an _asshole_. There’s nothing beautiful about that. Huffing out an indulgent laugh, Gerard flicks Frank’s hands away and knuckles in, wider than what Frank had been working with, his fingers sure regardless of his unsteady breaths and his expression one of intrigue and then concentration more than anything. 

Frank sighs when Gerard leans up to kiss him again. It puts Gerard’s cock right there against his ass, his own squished up against his stomach between them, making Frank writhe with impatience. Winding his arms around Gerard’s neck, burying his hands in Gerard’s hair, scraping his fingers down Gerard’s back, Frank gives just about as many, “Fuck me already,” signals as he can without actually saying the words. 

Of course he ends up saying it, though, because Gerard’s lizard brain only seems able to take commands and any initiative is lost. 

“Can I, Frank?” he asks against Frank’s mouth, “Please tell me you’re ready.”

“I’ve been telling you for twenty goddamn minutes,” Frank grouses, taking a palmful of Gerard’s ass to tug him closer. 

“Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” Gerard says, shaking his head as he fumbles on a condom, “I didn’t want to assume.”

“Well, assume away the next time, alright?”

Even when stupid things happen – like the lube skidding out of Gerard’s hand and onto the floor beside the bed – Frank is too worked up to care, too desperate to laugh. Gerard pushes in, thick and hard and hot, and takes a moment to gasp into Frank’s neck while Frank is too busy staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, groaning raggedly. Frank grinds his heels into the mattress and works his hips forward, turning his head to mouth at Gerard’s neck.

“Please, Gerard,” Frank breathes, trying to fuck himself open on Gerard’s cock, “Need it, please.” 

Maybe it’s the begging that does it, but finally Gerard groans like he’s dying, chokes out, “God, yeah.” He sits up on his knees, anchors Frank’s hips with a tight grip and pulls him down as he thrusts in again, harder. “Good?”

Frank whines an, “Uh huh,” and stretches his arms over his head, watching the way Gerard’s eyes rake over his skin as he finally gets up a good rhythm. Moving like this, fucking, looks natural for Gerard, even after the slow start. The way his chest and arms flex, his hips crank, and his stomach tenses, everything pale and soft – it looks like something that he should do all the time, every day. To Frank. Only Frank. And it feels so fucking good that Frank’s this close to asking for more already. “Goddamn it, Gerard.”

“What?” Gerard asks, slowing fractionally. He speeds back up when Frank tugs him closer by the ass.

“Been keeping me waiting,” Frank pants, writhing when Gerard scrapes up against his prostate. “Coulda been fucking my ass like this for months. _Harder_.” He tightens down, laughing breathlessly when it puts a touch of wildness in Gerard’s eyes. 

“Trust me,” Gerard replies, grinding in harder just like Frank requested, “I’ve wanted to.” Gerard tugs until Frank’s flat on the bed again, pounds in harder, deeper strokes. The head of his cock catches on the rim of Frank’s ass, slipping out and then back in, and the sting makes Frank shout wordlessly.

The next moment, Gerard’s pulling out, ignoring Frank’s whine of protest, and rolling Frank onto his side. He sidles up behind him, hand hot on Frank’s hip as he guides himself inside, panting against Frank’s neck as Frank gasps. Something about the angle change makes Gerard’s dick feel even bigger, stretching Frank so wide that white noise roars in his ears at the frantic beat of his pulse. He grunts and Gerard shushes him, rubbing soothingly at his hip before he brings his hand up to toy at Frank’s nipple.

Jolting, Frank grunts, “Fuck,” and reaches down to fist his dick. Gerard just laughs and tugs Frank’s leg up for better leverage.

Their skin is slick where it’s sliding together in counterpoint, charged as the air outside and nearly crackling with the building electricity – like any extra friction will spark a flame, white hot and reactive.

With his other hand, Frank reaches back to twine his fingers into Gerard’s hair and gives a sharp tug, laughing with delight when it makes Gerard whimper into Frank’s neck. Gerard pinches his nipple in retaliation, and Frank feels the smirk nestled into his hair when it makes him moan. “Always gotta fight dirty,” Gerard muses. He scrapes a hand at Frank’s chest, down his belly, leaving the damp skin sensitized until Frank gives an involuntary kick to which Gerard giggles.

Within the next second, Frank’s up on his knees, Gerard still buried inside with his hands burning brands into Frank’s belly. He leans forward, chest pressed so tightly against Frank’s back he can feel the thunder of Gerard’s heartbeat. His hand slips down to the base of Frank’s cock, pressing down on Frank’s balls, and then further down to Frank’s hole, fingers skimming lightly over Frank’s perineum.

“ _God_ ,” he groans, “Do you feel that? Where I’m stretching you?” Gerard’s voice is rougher than Frank has ever heard it, hitching with each thrust, and he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to Frank’s shoulder. 

Frank swallows, unsuccessfully, and rasps a, “Yeah,” as he braces more firmly against the bed, fingers curling around the edge of the mattress. His knuckles scrape the wall.

Tracing a finger down, right to the edge where Frank’s stretched wide around Gerard’s dick, Gerard rocks against him and brokenly whispers, “’s gonna make me come, Frank.” And just like that, it does; Gerard collapses against Frank’s back, dragging him belly-down onto the mattress as his hips lurch and he breathes harshly into Frank’s skin. Frank doesn’t really realize that the loud keening is coming from his own mouth until Gerard’s slipping out, kneeling up and tilting Frank over onto his back again. 

“So good, Frank,” he says, low and soothing as he swipes a finger through the lube around the crease where ass turns into thigh and presses it inside, “I’ll take care of you. It’s okay, baby. I’ll always take care of you.” And that’s so much fucking better that Frank moans a sharp noise into the air. Gerard runs a hand up Frank’s cheek and into his hair. He adds two more fingers and resumes the rhythm he’d been fucking Frank in, warm and real.

Frank’s so hot that he’s sure he’s going to die – just burn a fucking plasmatic hole through the sheets, the mattress and bed, the foundation, the ground, sinking and sinking until he’s right at home in the Earth’s core. Eyes alight, Gerard shushes him and smiles. He pulls his fingers out and pets over Frank’s rim again.

“Next time,” Gerard murmurs, “I wanna pull out and come on your asshole. Fucking all over it. Will you let me, Frank?”

It might be the words, or it might be Gerard’s tone, but in the next second Frank’s folding in half with the force of his orgasm, knees pulled up tight as Gerard curls a hand over Frank’s cock to stroke him through it. There’s no other way to describe Frank than lost. Completely and utterly lost. “Oh, fuck. Oh,” he pants, “fucking fuck. Fuck _you_.” Come is striped and puddled all up his belly and Frank can’t do a thing about it because he’s numb, tingling sharp and bittersweet in each and every extremity. “You killed me. I’m fucking dead, aren’t I?”

Gerard, the bastard, laughs all bright like the sun that’s finally illuminating the room. He slumps down between Frank’s splayed legs, chin resting on Frank’s thigh. Running a blunt fingernail over the words, he says, “Nope.” 

“Sweet,” Frank says, patting a hand on his chest. “Well, then. We’re going to do that again in about twenty minutes.”

 

*

 

They, understandably, take a bit longer than usual to say goodbye whenever Gerard has to leave for his shift and then later, when Linda gets home from wherever, Frank can’t make eye contact without blushing.

 

*

 

Just about anytime their schedules coincide, Frank and Gerard find a way to be together. Mostly, Frank is busy with work (because the audit, and Stacey, comes and goes without too much fanfare but a ridiculous amount of stress) and school. Gerard works constantly and literally only takes Friday afternoons and evenings off so that he can hang out with Frank. 

It’s not entirely easy, but it works for them.

The Friday after the audit, Christy takes them all to a local dive for a liquid lunch. Boozed up and stress-free is a much easier way to deal with them, stories turning raunchy and laughs flowing easily with each margarita they drink. Heather and Brandy sit on either side of him, so he doesn’t feel obligated to offer input when the conversation turns alcohol-blunt and political toward the end. He just talks about how he wishes for summer and Heather offers a standing invitation to them all as soon as the pool opens at her new house.

All in all, it’s an easy day.

Frank’s nearly sobered up by the time he’s home, stumbling straight to the PS3 to kick some ass before Gerard comes over. Dewees ends up online at the same time, sending a little message that says, _i’ll beat your ass at one in the chamber_ and Frank sends one back that says _you’re on_. The gunshots are loud and the explosions are still ringing in Frank’s ears by the time seven rolls around and Frank realizes that Gerard’ll be there any minute.

Shagging ass out of the game, Frank belatedly realizes that the ringing is actually the doorbell and it’s most definitely stuck again. He goes ahead and grabs the screwdriver before he answers it.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he jokes after the chiming has stopped. Gerard smiles and swoops in for a kiss before he toes off his boots and unravels himself from his outerwear. “How was that new client, uh, Mr. Barker?”

Gerard follows Frank to the couch and flops down beside him, head pillowed on Frank’s thigh. He replies, “Pretty easy. He wanted me to take him to the shooting range. My ears are still ringing.”

At that, Frank hums a sympathetic noise and turns the volume on the TV down to almost non-existent before he resumes MW3. “Need some aspirin?” he asks.

Shaking his head, Gerard turns over and shuffles until his face is pressed up against Frank’s stomach. His breath is hot through the fabric and when Frank pushes Gerard’s hair back from his forehead, his skin is hot. He seems content to doze for a while so Frank keeps playing COD until Gerard laughs and mumbles, “Your stomach is growling.”

Frank lets Gerard stay on the couch while he makes them pasta with butter and garlic and parmesan cheese, nothing fancy, and brings it to him once it’s finished. He tries not to badger Gerard about how he’s feeling because he knows how fucking annoying that can get, so instead he just keeps his knee against Gerard’s and occasionally offering a smile. 

Neither one of them are actually up for a movie or more video games, so Frank leads Gerard up to his room and lays beside him on the bed. They talk a bit more, conversation aimless until Gerard mentions something about his comic book.

Frank feels like he’d been waiting all this time – ever since day fucking one – for Gerard to bring it up again, and just like that the floodgates are opened. Gerard speaks openly about plot themes, eloquently about character arcs, and it’s all so complex and intricate that Frank can’t help but ask about specifics every time they come to mind. Gerard is so fucking passionate that at some point, between his enthusiastically answering Frank’s questions, Frank takes Gerard’s face in his hands and kisses him because there’s no way he can help it.

His skin is still a bit too hot, threatening a fever, but that doesn’t deter Frank’s kissing him back. Their noses bump and Frank smiles, giggling until Gerard bites down and tongues at the sensitive spot his teeth made. It heats up quickly after that, boiling point surpassed, and Frank’s the first to fumble at Gerard’s striped shirt until it’s flung to the floor. With the soft hush of fabric, the rest of their clothes join and Frank takes his time kissing up and down Gerard’s chest and belly, back up to his mouth for a thorough kiss. 

“Always feel so good,” Gerard mumbles, twining his fingers into Frank’s hair as he mouths his way back down. “Look so good with your mouth on my dick.” 

Pulling away from where he’s sucking a bruise into the sharp jut of Gerard’s hip, Frank retorts, “Who says I’m gonna suck your dick?” He gives a wicked smirk and sits up on his knees. Frank runs a hand down his own chest, fingers toying with peaked nipples before he rests them on his thighs. He looks down at Gerard – his cock flushed and curved, his hands clenched in the sheets, his mouth swollen and red from Frank’s – and takes the initiative to reach down and give his dick a few tugs. 

At that, Gerard whines a pretty noise and pouts. “But Frank – baby, please?”

Smirk tugging at his mouth, Frank concedes and slumps back down and takes Gerard’s cock in hand, pressing it against his belly so that he can get his mouth on Gerard’s balls first. The texture of the skin is always a little softer than Frank expects, full and heavy on his tongue. He echoes Gerard’s groan and sucks them in, one at a time, stroking Gerard’s dick when he starts rocking his hips. Frank pulls off and rolls Gerard’s sac in his hands, tonguing up the shaft of his dick, tracing the veins with his mouth. Gerard cries out when Frank finally sucks at the head, tongue pointed in a steady pressure against that most sensitive spot.

Gerard’s hands are soft on Frank’s cheeks, tracing the hollows. Frank sucks harder, goes slower so he can take more and make Gerard crazy with it. He doesn’t tease intentionally, because really, he’s in his cock-sucking happy-place zone, but Gerard reminds him to keep stroking with the bump of his fingers against Frank’s stilled ones, rested at the base of his cock. Together they bring Gerard up and over the edge, spilling hot and bright and bitter over Frank’s tongue – and before Frank can swallow, Gerard’s leaning down and bringing Frank up, sharing the come in one of the dirtiest kisses of Frank’s life.

He groans, whimpers a desperate noise into Gerard’s mouth as he scrapes his fingers bluntly over Gerard’s back, damp with sweat. 

Pulling away with a slick noise, Gerard smiles and presses another few chaste kisses to Frank’s mouth. Without any words, he leans forward until Frank falls back, nearly braining himself on the dresser at the foot of his bed, and then he flips Frank over. The first thing Frank registers is Gerard’s hair tickling at his shoulders, Gerard’s nose skimming down the notches of his spine, Gerard’s lips sweat-stuttering on his skin. Frank reaches down to fist his cock and Gerard allows it, petting up and down Frank’s thighs.

“You’re so beautiful, Frank,” Gerard says into his back, fingers soft over Frank’s hips. He skims up and down Frank’s ribs, almost lightly enough to tickle. “So good and honest and loyal.” Gerard traces the guns on Frank’s lower back, presses a kiss to the slight swell of his ass – and Frank knows what’s coming, knows it’s going to be so good.

“Killin’ me, Gee,” he breathes. Frank keeps his strokes slow, waiting. His balls are already drawn up tight.

“Spread your legs some more for me.” Gerard palms at Frank’s ass, hums appreciatively when Frank obliges. “You’ve got such a pretty hole,” he tells Frank, voice a rough rumble.

Frank’s stomach bottoms out and then, just as he’s about to give in and jerk himself off hard and fast, he feels Gerard spread him open, lick a fat stripe from the skin behind his balls over his hole and up to his tailbone. Frank shouts, “Fuck!” and slams the hand that had been on his dick against the dresser, bracing himself. It rocks with the force and Frank is vaguely aware of something crashing to the floor, too caught up in the way Gerard groans appreciatively and presses a kiss to Frank’s asshole.

He trembles, feels his thighs shaking, and he can’t stop chanting, “Fuck fuck fuck,” because he’s not sure he knows any other words. 

It’s like Gerard’s just tasting, testing it out, licking all around in a way that’s less hesitant and more thorough. His breath puffs hotly against Frank’s skin and then there’s his tongue or his lips, alternating between infuriating kisses and wet licks, circling, flitting, and not quite going inside. Gerard’s laugh vibrates his skin, sets it alight and so fucking sensitive that Frank feels like he’s losing his fucking mind. “Love how this makes you tremble.”

And Frank is, he’s shaking so hard and dripping thickly onto his blankets. “Fuck,” he repeats.

When Gerard delves back in, he tugs a bit at Frank’s rim with his thumbs, uses his teeth and his lips and his tongue, and then finally – fucking _finally_ – presses inside. Frank is relatively sure that he howls, and that makes Gerard laugh against his ass again. After that, he’s licking and sucking and making these hungry noises like he can’t get enough of Frank’s asshole – and when he says as much, along with the rough press of his thumb against Frank’s hole, Frank shouts and comes so fucking hard.

Gerard’s still licking at him, wet and messy turned slow and delicate, when Frank finds his way back down, a crumpled heap at the foot of his bed. It sends jolts up his spine every now and again, but Frank can’t find it in himself to tell Gerard to stop, that it’s too much and he’s way too fucking sensitive. All he gets out is, “Ugh,” and series of heavy, panting breaths.

Frank isn’t sure how, but they fall asleep like that – Gerard’s face resting against Frank’s ass cheeks – and he finds it so ridiculous when he wakes up that he can’t even be annoyed about being half stuck to the mattress from his own come. 

When Frank’s shaking laughter wakes him up, a quick look over his shoulder shows Gerard wrinkling his nose and furrowing his brow. He rubs at his eyes and looks so fucking cute that Frank just rotates him around until he’s resting his head against the actual pillows and not in the wet spot. Gerard’s asleep again by the time Frank returns with a towel (though the wet spot is actually crusted over) and his extra pair of boxers. 

He looks stupidly cherubic, his lashes long and his mouth round and his cheeks all rosy, and doesn’t even twitch when Frank pulls the underwear up Gerard’s legs. Frank spoons up behind him and whispers, “Goodnight.”

 

*

 

In the morning, Gerard’s alarm goes off – “ _I’m back! I’m back in the saddle again!_ ” – until the song starts back over and that’s what finally makes Frank roll over and press at Gerard’s phone until it shuts up. 

“Gerard?” Frank grumbles, shoving at his shoulder.

It takes a groggy ten minutes, but Frank reiterates the fact that Gerard has a shift and eventually Gerard rolls out of bed and into Frank’s shower. Frank is very tempted to join him. However, the bed is much more appealing and so Frank turns into the warm spot Gerard left to comfortably doze.

When he gets out, Frank’s sat up against the pillows, blankets pulled up to his chin. Gerard’s body is still slightly damp and his hair sticks out every which way. Frank’s heart flutters and he smiles up at him. Gerard is slow to return it, his eyes swollen with sleep, and slow to get dressed, brush his teeth, pull on his shoes.

Gerard presses a kiss to Frank’s cheek when he says goodbye, and Frank wants to pull him back into bed and keep him there forever.

 

*

 

Two weeks later, Gerard calls in sick and Frank gets to hear Christy and Donna bitch about how flaky all of their caregivers are and why can’t they just get anyone decent hired and blah blah blah. It’s fucking annoying for one thing, and for another it pisses Frank the fuck off because Gerard is anything but flaky. The dude’s rock fucking solid. Christy and Donna can suck his dick.

“He’s not so bad,” Frank vouches when they sound like they’re going to keep at it for another half hour. “I mean, he’s been really dependable so far, and I mean. He’s basically been working twelve hour shift after twelve hour shift. Even if he isn’t sick –” Which he definitely is, his _brother_ had texted Frank and told him about the one-oh-three temp. “– maybe he’s just needing a day or two off before he gets burned out.”

Christy kind of looks at him like he’s grown a second head and Donna just keeps the dead-eyed stare going at her computer screen. Frank guesses it’s because that’s probably the most he’s ever said at once to them. Whatever.

He turns on his heel and goes back to his office before he does something stupid, like speak his mind again.

 

*

 

At two minutes ‘til five, Frank practically springs out of there, not giving a shit that Donna will more than likely be there until seven or so working on insurance and invoicing. It’s not his problem (though he does feel unnecessary guilt). Regardless, he rushes home, scribbles a quick note to Ma that says “taking soup to Gerard, be back soon!” and then dusts off his old clunker and hurries to get to Bison Witches.

It’s a soup-and-sandwiches place by day that morphs into a beer-and-wings place with the waning sunlight. Luckily, they still have some potato soup left, so Frank grabs a bowl to-go before he gets pelted with beer nuts or yelled at for blocking the view or whatever it is that rowdy post-work accountants and lawyers do.

After securing the soup in the floorboard where it hopefully won’t spill, given Frank’s penchant for wild corner-turning, he stops by the 24-hour pharmacy to pick up what his mother calls a palliative care package. Frank thinks it sounds vaguely morbid, but figures it’s appropriate because every time he’s sick enough to merit one, he basically feels like he should be on hospice. Basically, it’s chock full of all the Robitussin, Tylenol, NyQuil, tissues, saltines, and Ricola he can afford, along with a variety of colors of sports drinks for electrolytes and potassium and whatnot, doing his best to squeeze past people with a polite, “Excuse me,” every now and again.

He fucking hates pharmacies.

In the parking lot, Frank Mapquests directions to Gerard’s house on his phone (while trying to ignore the fact that it’s probably going to knock him into overages on his shitty data plan). “You are such a fucking creep,” he tells himself. But hey, if he hadn’t put Gerard’s work listed info into his phone, there’s no way he’d be able to do this at all. The GPS tells him it’s only a ten minute drive in the opposite direction, so Frank takes his time in driving there, doing his best to make note of landmarks and street names because he is absolute _balls_ at remembering routes.

A slim, wiry, greasy-haired dude, who must be Mikey, Gerard’s brother, answers the door when Frank knock-knock-knocks. He gives Frank a half-nod, shuffling back so that Frank can come in. The dude doesn’t say anything though, so Frank kind of awkwardly goes, “I’m Frank, Gerard’s boyfriend?” and prays to whatever god is listening that he hasn’t just outed him.

“I know,” he answers. He kind of tilts his head, giving Frank a once-over and then nods. “I’m Mikey. Gerard’s room is that way.” Mikey doesn’t offer a hand or anything so Frank just kind of smiles and starts inching in the direction that he’d gestured to, antsy to see Gerard, until Mikey goes, “What’s in the bags?”

Frank clears his throat and fights the urge to tell him to fuck off because he has a sick boyfriend to coddle, and answers, “Meds, crackers, soup.”

A slow nod finally manifests and Mikey says, “Cool,” all approvingly. 

“Did I pass your test?” he asks before he can stop himself.

This time Mikey kind of smirks all wryly and says, “Sure, man. I’ll leave you to it.” 

The door is open and Gerard’s propped against a mountain of like thirty-five pillows, obscured by a hoodie, a mound of blankets, and a big tackle box that Frank suspects is full of art utensils. He hears the steady beat and heavy blare of guitars, takes in the way Gerard bobs his head a bit every now and then turns to cough (loud and wet) into the crook of his elbow. 

Frank knocks on the doorframe. Gerard doesn’t notice.

“Oh, my god,” Frank giggles to himself. If Gerard didn’t sound like absolute shit, Frank might be enough of an asshole to do a flying-elbow onto his bed, just to hear him scream like a girl. Instead, he decides that maybe he should give Gerard some semblance of warning in the form of a text message that says, _on a scale of the first 10 mins of SPN to Sherlock holmes how observant would you say you are?_

Being able to see Gerard’s face light up when he sees the text message is one thing, one really awesome and very gratifying thing, but hearing him shriek at the top of his lungs will probably be Frank’s favorite moment from now until the end of time. The initial horror on Gerard’s face is probably the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

Frank cracks up before he can help himself. 

Wrenching his headphones off, Gerard shrills, “It’s not fucking funny, Frank!” and clutches at his chest as he pants. The panting turns to coughing and Frank feels minutely guilty even though he can’t quite stop giggling. “Asshole,” he says, knocking his fist weakly at Frank’s bicep after Frank sidles up beside the bed.

“Ouch! Ow, oh, god, I’m gonna bruise,” Frank says, rubbing at his flexed arm. Grinning like a little shit, he drops the sack onto the mattress and says, “Okay, so, I got you a complimentary palliative care package since you have the deathflu. I expect you to do the same for me when it takes me out within the next seventy-two hours since I looked at you.” Just because he can, Frank leans in and kisses Gerard’s clammy forehead and then says, “Gotta go; love you,” nice and easy and without any premeditation.

Gerard smiles back, a wide-eyed and dazed kind of smile, and says it right back. Zero hesitation. It’s awesome, basically.

 

*

 

Like he’s predicted, Frank ends up taking the next four days off from the world, sneezing and coughing and hacking and trembling with fever. Illness has always taken him fast and relentlessly, leaving him rode hard and put up wet by the time it finishes running its course. Frank, when he’s getting ready for work that Friday morning, looks skinny and pale in the mirror, and even smaller after he’s donned all his layers. “It’s go time,” he tells himself, ignoring the way his stomach rolls like thunder.

Christy and Donna are understandably short with Frank whenever he gets there, barking orders and informing him of the tasks he needs to complete before the day’s end. Apparently they had hired two people while he’d been out and now they expect him to give them orientation at ten o’clock today.

Slow and steady is his M.O., and he’s got both newly minted caregivers loaded up with IDs and the handbook and a couple of training manuals by one in the afternoon. He fights the urge to nod off and acts like he’s alright when Christy asks him if he’s okay. Normally, she would make him go home, but they’re supposed to be getting their audit score back in the next few days and Frank doesn’t want to leave them alone with those answers like he hadn’t contributed, so he toughs it out. Five PM rolls around and Frank gathers his shit, walks home at a snail’s pace.

The couch beckons and Frank can’t resist, a sailor to a siren’s call, so he loses the few hours that he’d normally have to study in peace before his mother gets home. Instead, she wakes him with a hand to the forehead and an, “Oh, honey,” before she ushers him to his room.

Frank toes off his shoes and collapses on his bed, too tired to deal with anything but closing his eyes again.

Sometime in the middle of the night, his phone screen lights up the pitch black of his room and Frank stares at it until his eyes adjust and the words aren’t blurry. _You feeling ok?_ it says, making a noise as _hope I didn’t wake u…_ follows almost immediately and it takes a bit of time, but logic says that Gerard has just gotten off shift.

Because he does want to make Gerard feel bad, Frank resolves to wait until a more decent hour before he texts back, still pretty miserably clogged with snot and unable to breathe. He lies awake, propped up on his side by a couple of folded pillows, wishing he had the energy to go down to the kitchen for some tea, or even to the bathroom for some toilet paper to use as snot rags. Instead, he just kind of groans, “Ugh,” and falls back asleep.

 

*

 

The next morning, or possibly the afternoon, Frank wakes to the soft scratch of pencil on paper and Gerard’s off-key and absentminded humming – the chorus to Queen’s “Somebody to Love” from what Frank can tell. Gerard’s ankle is bare against his, moving back and forth as he taps out the rhythm of the song.

“Oh! Hey,” Gerard says, shoving hair behind his ear as he sets his sketchpad down. With a whoosh of blanket, the contact leaves as his feet settle back on the floor, rolling closer to the bed in Frank’s desk chair. “I was just going to leave this –” he gestures to a plastic sack next to Frank’s laptop “– but your mom let me in, and you weren’t looking that good, so. Well. Here I am.” He smiles sort of hesitantly and Frank just kind of reaches out for his hand.

“You’re too fucking good to me,” he says. His voice sounds terrible, probably because it feels like his lungs have been soaking in a salt brine all night and then grated before shoved back into his chest. “I think I’ve got bronchitis. Again.”

Gerard’s hand goes to Frank’s forehead and it feels too cool, sending a shiver down Frank’s spine. “Fever,” he mumbles around a frown. “Guess that cold medicine is basically useless then. There’s an Urgent Care a couple of miles away. I had to take Betty there a couple of weeks ago – which, hey, that’s probably why you’ve got this now. Awesome. We could go and get you some antibiotics.” 

Frank says, “Yeah, okay,” and lets Gerard help him throw on some pants and talk to him while he brushes his teeth. It’s not until they’ve waited in the lobby for an hour and a half, talked to a doctor about symptoms, and got a prescription in hand before Frank realizes that Gerard is here with him and not at his usual Saturday client’s home, taking care of them. But he’s too tired to point it out, and by the time they’ve picked up his (antibiotics _and_ a high powered cough syrup) prescription from CVS, Frank just wants to crawl into bed and not get back out until he’s better.

Which is basically what he does.

Gerard stays, makes sure that Frank takes the proper dosages, sets him up on the couch with Thor and watches with him for a while before he goes to piddle around in the kitchen. Frank drifts in and out of consciousness, sweating and shivering his way through his fever as he sips some PowerAde, the white cherry flavor. He’s mutters along to the end of the movie, and is actually in the process of crawling from the couch to get _Captain America: The First Avenger_ out of the armoire when Gerard comes back. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, eight million parts concerned. He helps Frank back onto the couch, sighing like his burdens are too heavy. “Frank, why didn’t you just shout and tell me it was over? All you had to do was shout. Or grumble. Or even text.”

Frank is almost too out of breath and weak to answer, but eventually he manages, “You were busy.”

He looks almost hurt when he says, “I’m never too busy for you, my _god_ ,” and if Frank wasn’t busy hacking up a lung, he’s pretty sure that his chest would be exploding with stupid fucking emotions. Although, maybe that’s what it’s actually doing. Maybe he doesn’t have bronchitis. Maybe it’s just pansyitis. 

“You’re turning me into a girl. This must be the first stage. My body is rejecting my masculinity.”

Sighing again, Gerard points out, “That’s sexist.” He pitches down onto the couch and insinuates himself between Frank and the back cushions. His arm is gentle but solid around Frank’s middle, calm and safe and home. “Also, your fever has gone down quite a bit so I guess you get to keep your masculinity after all. Play the movie.”

 

*

 

The results come in on Monday. Christy calls Frank into her office and he can’t do anything but blink tiredly and listen to deficiency after deficiency, trying to refute them (“That’s bullcrap; nobody does that!”) or plead ignorance (“The Newark office isn’t doing this. How are we supposed to know that this is a regulation?”) to Frank like he can change anything.

Honestly, he knew that they were going to get a shitty audit score because he used all of the materials that the franchise provided to do the do-it-yourself ones to prepare for this thing, and he knows for a fact that if Stacey had pulled any other charts than the ones that she did, then they would have failed absolutely. Christy spends most of the day raving, spitting mad yet still nowhere near cursing, either to Frank or to the other owners in the state who were next in line for the royal corporate reaming. At some point, Christy goes into Donna’s office and closes the door and Frank feels like he can breathe for the first time all day.

The only problem is that Frank can still hear smidgens of their conversation, the, “Well, no, but –” and then the, “He’s only called in once before.” He hears, “lazy,” and, “must be looking for another job,” and Frank gets so fucking mad that has to send Gerard, _talk me down or I’m gonna fuck shit up here._

_Whats wrong  
Ru ok_

What’s wrong? There’s so much to pick from that Frank doesn’t know where the fuck to start. 

Frank just sends back, _they’re fucking talking shit about you for calling in this weekend so NO I AM NOT OKAY._

Maybe with the fact that Christy still has fucking _Twilight_ on her desk, or her unwarranted angry raving, or the fact that Donna has zero personality and treats the caregivers like shit, or the fact that Heather scrolls through Facebook all day, or that Lance is never there to help, or that he is so fucking underappreciated that he doesn’t even fucking deserve a pat on the back or a fucking, “Good job, Frank; thanks for saving our asses!” He could nitpick until he’s blue in the face, but really, it all comes down to the fact that they talk about human beings as if they’re just means to an end – and not just Gerard, either. They talk shit and gossip behind all of the caregivers’ backs, and smile and tell them thanks for a job well done to their faces, so smarmy and fucking _dishonest_ –

And there. There’s the clarity that Frank needed.

There’s a bit of a lull where Frank waits and when he doesn’t hear back, he starts a new Word document and types and types and edits until his phone buzzes again. 

_Want me 2 distract u?_

For a moment oscillates between yes and no, wondering if it’s the kind of “distract” that will cause him to lose his job – because whatever, he has nothing to lose now. With a mental _fuck it_ , Frank sends back _sure_ and switches between working on his audit (entitled “Spreadsheet of Doom pt 2”) and the Word document. It takes a while – Christy has gone back into her office and Frank has actually cooled off a bit, the decision like a dousing of fresh water on a hot summer day. And that, coupled with the lull of revising and the churn of quick guitars from his speakers finally takes effect – and the text arrives with the simple words, _meet me downstairs in 10._

He prints the document, signs it, and tucks it into his pocket.

Patience kaput, Frank tells Christy he’s going out for lunch and doesn’t give her much choice in the matter because he’s already locking his door and strolling down the hall. He tells Brandy he’ll be back in an hour and gets a cigarette between his lips before the door jingles closed behind him. 

He smokes until Gerard pulls up, his dusty Subaru scraping to a stop in the handicapped parking spot right there in front of Frank. “Hurry up,” he urges Frank, casting a look toward the courthouse down the street, “I don’t wanna get a ticket.”

Frank saunters as slowly as he can stand, just to be a little shit.

Gerard only sighs. “You seem to be in a better mood,” he points out after Frank has settled in the passenger seat. 

“Yeah, well,” Frank returns. It’s sunny outside, he’s feeling marginally better (well, healthy enough to risk a cigarette) and maybe it’s Gerard’s face or his familiar smell or just his presence but the tension and anger has evaporated. Zero traces left. Just that warm, fuzzy happy-couple bullshit that used to make Frank gag until Gerard. Bastard’s turned him soft, zombie-bite contagious. Jesus.

“I called in fries to go, if you’re interested.”

“The Diner?”

“Where else?”

“Touché,” Frank says around an overwhelming urge to smile. 

With only minor causalities, they make it around the block to The Diner. Gerard lets Frank stay in the car while he picks it up and pays like a gentleman, the smell of fried goodness saturating the car as soon as Gerard shuts the door behind himself. He hands the bag to Frank and backs out, marginally more careful than earlier, and drives them to Speeding Bullet and buys Frank his very own Mjolnir when he’s not looking.

Outside, parked and stuffing their faces with fries, Frank watches Gerard watch people go by. The turning gears are practically visible, and Frank is tempted to shove the sketchpad on the floor into Gerard’s hands, just to see what he can come up with. 

“Whatcha thinkin’?” he asks. He pauses before his next mouthful, takes a second to breathe since his nose is still sort of stopped up. Tempted by the next bit of fries hovering near his mouth, Frank glances at Gerard, making sure he heard, and then shoves them in.

Ever the gentleman, Gerard thoughtfully finishes chewing before he says anything. A soft smile graces his face. “I, well. Do you remember –” he breaks off, bites his lip.

Frank puts a greasy hand on Gerard’s thigh, denim almost too soft beneath his fingertips. “Spit it out, Gee,” he says, peeking at his phone screen. “We only got fifteen minutes left, man. And I’ve got something to tell you, too.” 

A deep breath and a shake of the head, Gerard looks fond when he says, “You’re such an ass.” He takes another bite, swallows, and turns down the music. It’s a tape – because this car is a classy piece of shit – and Frank thinks that it might be on the B side of Gerard’s Favorite Rock Operas, featuring mostly Queen and The Who and Bowie. “That first time I came by your house, I brought you a thing – a gift. But I never actually gave it to you because we got kinda busy and all, so I’ll give it to you now, but uh. After I give you something else first.”

Intrigued, Frank casts around the dashboard for a napkin and wipes away the grease from his fingers. He sets the brown bag into the footwell, and by the time he’s back upright, Gerard’s putting a stapler onto the console between them. Which…is a little weird, even for Gerard, because it’s not like Frank doesn’t already have a stapler. “A stapler. Thanks?” Frank says, “Okay, I swear I’m not being ungrateful. It’s just I’m tired, and I’m sure this means something, but you’ll have to explain.”

That little half-smile, hair-ruffle thing that Gerard does drives Frank crazy, mostly because of the way it makes his chest clench and feel all delicately light. “It’s – well, okay. We’ve had this discussion about a million times, but I bought you this stapler to sort of reiterate it.” There’s a softness in his tone, his eyes too fucking gentle and caring for Frank to deserve. But oh, well. Gerard is his, and fuck if Frank is ever letting him go. “Just do what makes you happy. You don’t have to feel like you’re stuck anywhere – this job, in school, with _me_. I dunno. I guess it’s sort of representative of your freedom, if that makes any sense.” Stopping short again, Gerard looks down and shifts around in the driver’s seat, cheeks going pink. “Fuck, it sounded not so stupid in my head.”

He’s about to say, “Dude, you’re not making any sense,” when it kind of hits him – the second dose of clarity for the day: Gerard’s trying to tell Frank to quit without explicitly saying so. He’s saying that he loves Frank and thinks he deserves something better, something where he’ll be appreciated. He’s saying that he’s worried about Frank’s health and happiness, saying that this job is – it’s fastening him to a routine where he feels powerless. Gerard’s telling him to take control.

Gerard’s telling Frank to be a stapler and not a staple and, _wow, what a fucking metaphor._

The air between them is a little awkward, Gerard scanning Frank’s face while Frank’s scanning the air between them for words. He doesn’t know what the fuck to say. No one has ever done anything like this for him before – anything that actually _meant_ something. 

“Uh, and in case you think that’s completely lame…” Gerard reaches into the back seat again while Frank is still sitting there in attempts to reboot his brain and heart and lungs back online, already halfway into a ramble before Frank can react. “This is what I was gonna give you way back when. I made you this CD – well, Mikey helped me make it, but that’s beside the point –”

Frank never thought he’d be the type of asshole to shut someone up with a kiss, especially when it can’t even last all that long because he needs what’s left of his lungs for breathing, but well, there he goes. Actively kissing Gerard in the middle of a sentence, rambling as it may be, makes Frank feel like a super douche. “You’re the fucking _best_ ,” Frank eventually manages. “For the love of god, please don’t ever change. Do you even – you’re so fucking _thoughtful_ , I’m gonna –” He can’t help but kiss Gerard again, cupping his face between his hands.

“It’s a collection of live versions of some Black Flag and The Misfits that aren’t widely available so I don’t know if you have them or if you can even –”

“I’m talking about the fucking stapler, jesus fucking –” Another kiss, and this time Frank chews on the full side of Gerard’s lower lip, the crooked part of his smile. 

“So does that mean you, uh, liked it?” Gerard asks, having the nerve to sound hesitant. His voice is soft and his lips are all red and a little swollen when Frank casts a look down. 

With a glare, Frank says, “Shut up,” and kisses Gerard again. “Yes – I can’t even.”

 

*

 

Typing up his resignation letter hadn’t been all that hard after all. Sure, Frank has grown fond of these people, even though they’re mostly closed-minded, hypocritical bigots. Maybe fond isn’t the word. He’s grown…comfortable with them and he didn’t think he’d have to cut himself away from them so early. But Gerard was right and it took Frank along time to see that. He can’t sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of obligations; his health – both mental and physical – is more important than some bullshit about a positive work history. The letter tactfully says as much, and Frank doesn’t feel a single ounce of regret when he hands it to Christy when he gets back from lunch that afternoon.

Initially, she blanches, going doe-eyed and then angry. Christy demands reasons (that she could read clearly in the letter if she’d actually open it and take a second to let it process). He tells her about going full-time to university in the fall, hoping to finish up a few social psychology credits before he can get into the nitty-gritty of lab classes, and then the fact that he’s giving her a month in advance instead of just two weeks. Frank explains needing time off before the next semester to clear his head and, “enjoy being alive.” He shrugs at her inquisitive look. “I haven’t spent a lot of time on me. That’s a big deal for social workers. I can’t help people without first helping myself.”

And, because Frank really isn’t as much a douche as he pretends to be, he lets her know that he’ll get started on finding his replacement and training them up before he goes.

In the end, she says something along the lines of her knowing that he wouldn’t work out long term, what with him still being in school and all, but being very grateful for all the help he’s given. 

Frank counts it as a win and walks home with a smile on his face for the first time in a long while.

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**SEVEN MONTHS LATER**

 

“Frank, where’s the –”

A loud clanging rings out from the kitchen nook and Frank hears Gerard grumble a long, drawn out curse. “In the drawer!” He yells back, voice echoing through the small space of the living area as he closes his laptop. It hits the loveseat cushion with a dull thump and Frank stands and says, “The one on the other side of the oven,” and shuffles around the corner to where Gerard’s attempting to, Frank doesn’t fucking know, maybe _flambé_ something. “Did you – wow, yep, nope.”

The heat coming from the oven is stifling, and combined with the boiling water on the stove and the bacon frying in the pan adjacent. Insinuating himself into the tight space, Frank opens the drawer between the oven and the refrigerator and pulls out the oven mitts in question and hands them to Gerard, who’s busy trying to shut off the glitchy timer. “Fucking, fuck, fuck,” he mutters as Frank holds the button down and gets it to quit shrilling. “Wow, _fuck you_. I was trying to do that for like five minutes.” Gerard slips the mitts on and pulls out the pan.

“Oh, my _fuck_ ,” Frank vociferates, poking at one of the pastries. He obviously burns his finger, yelping and sticking it in his mouth. “Ugh, they smell so good.”

Gerard orders, “Run it under cold water,” and wheels around to pull the facon off of the stove. “Why am I boiling water? Frank?” 

It’s four o’clock in the evening and they’re both still a bit sleep-stupid. Gerard stumbling into the apartment from working an overnight followed by a four hour shift, only an hour after Frank had woken up after a late night at Train Station Blues. He’d been manic when he’d slipped onto the couch beside Frank, and their squirming against each other had been sloppy at best. Frank figures he can let it slide.

“Fuck if I know, man,” he replies, “I just woke up and you were making breakfast, I don’t even know.” He sticks his finger into the powdered sugar and asks, “Those are the vegan poptarts?” 

Distracted, Gerard half-answers an, “Uh huh,” and continues to sprinkle it over the crusts. “Oh! I was gonna try to make dumplings but then I found the –” He gestures with one hand to the pan still sizzling off the burner. “Will you turn that off for me?”

They make it to the table with the minor causalities of a burnt finger and wounded pride, Frank giving his own version of a blessing in the form of a quick squeeze to Gerard’s hand across the table as he makes big cow eyes at their meal. 

Around a bit of flaky crust, Frank asks, “How’d you learn how to cook?” The strawberry filling, _home-fucking-made_ , is still basically molten lava and Frank has to keep his mouth open and let it cool a bit, steam rising from his mouth.

“Working assignments,” he replies, crunching on some bacon. (It’s real bacon, cooked after Frank’s because Gerard is considerate and Frank is willing to make compromises with their new living arrangements and food preferences as long as Gerard keeps his meat packaged to where Frank can’t stumble upon it accidentally. Things are marked as “DON’T OPEN THIS” or “MURDER WAS COMMITTED” or “WISH I WERE SORRY” for arguments’ sake.) “I’ve learned a _lot_.”

Smiling softly, Frank asks, “How is everybody?” and takes another bite of his delicious fucking soy bacon. 

Gerard eyes Frank’s hand, and then the other, matching one “Hopeless” heart-half to its “Romantic” twin with a crinkly-eyed, sleep-exhausted smile in return. “I think they’re all doing pretty well. We got a few new clients, I think, and you know how that gets Christy all excited.” He takes another bite, chewing and swallowing before he continues, “Which of course means that they’re still asking me to work ridiculous hours, even if I get a little bit of wiggle room what with my tighter availability.” Beaming, Gerard cuts his eyes back down to his plate, trying not to show how satisfied he is with himself even though it’s so very obvious to Frank. He’s (quite) a bit smarter about his poptart, cutting it in half to let out some of the heat before spearing a piece onto his fork.

Rolling his eyes at Gerard’s humility, Frank thinks about the past few months and how Gerard has every fucking right to shout, “I’m going to be a published author! A _talented_ , published author! With a comic book! That people can buy from stores!” from the rooftops and feel glorious about it. 

“Yeah, well,” Frank says, grinning even wider. He shoves a bit more bacon in his mouth and then some more poptart crust, trying to quench that ridiculous, ever-present swoop in his gut and the swell in his chest from his pride in Gerard. It doesn’t work, and it’s not like he minds, because he’s here with Gerard and he’s _happy._

**Author's Note:**

> DON'T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THE ART AND MIX. They're so awesome that I legitimately cried.


End file.
